The Lost Weekend
by J0
Summary: Steve commits a heinous crime. It is witnessed by a room full of cops. Will he ever get to be a detective again?
1. See You in Hell

**Disclaimer:**  This is a work of fan fiction written for fun and not for profit.  All _Diagnosis Murder characters are the property of CBS/Viacom.  All other characters are my own._

**Summary:  **Steve commits a heinous crime.  A dozen cops witnessed the act.  Will he ever be a cop again?

**Spoilers:  **Retribution, Obsession/Resurrection, Alienated, Marked for Murder, UBLA, Town Without Pity, Murder in the Family, Murder by Remote, Murder at the Finish Line.  (Trust me, they all fit in there quite naturally!)

**A/N:  **This story is complete.  After my struggle with "Full Circle," I will NEVER post another work in progress again.  It is only fifteen chapters, and will be posted in its entirety by the end of the week, barring problems with my computer or the site.****

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**The Lost Weekend**

Chapter 1: See You in Hell 

**(Tuesday, 08 July 2003.  0930 hours)**

"Chief, I have a message for you," Steve Sloan hung up his phone and called to his superior as Chief Masters walked past the door on the way to his office. 

In a rare considerate gesture, Chief Masters entered the squad room, meeting halfway the talented lieutenant who had earned his grudging respect.

"What is it, Sloan?"

In a smooth, fluid motion, Steve pulled out his service weapon and fired three rounds into the Chief's chest.  As the older man lay at his feet, bloodied and writhing in agony, Steve spat on him and replied, "Mateo says he'll see you in hell."

Steve raised his weapon one more time, and with only a slight tremor, pointed it at the Chief's head.  The shaking stopped, and Steve fired.  As he began to apologize, he turned the gun on himself, but before he could fire again, four large bodies hit him hard, and everything went black.


	2. The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 2: The Best Laid Plans 

**(Thursday, 03 July, 2003.  1900 hours.)**

"I don't see why you can't get someone to cover for you," Steve pouted as he helped Jesse clear the table.

"Son, there _is_ no one else," Mark explained while loading the dishwasher.  "People have been dropping like flies for the past two days.  The ER will be understaffed as it is."

"Yeah," Jesse agreed as he got a cloth to wipe down the table, "and you know Amanda's not gonna leave the path lab until she figures out what this bug is."

Laughing, Mark added, "She won't rest until she finds the source of the infection."  He opened the refrigerator and got out the banana crème pie Jesse had brought for dessert.

Taking down three clean plates, Steve looked at his father and asked, "You don't think this could have been deliberate, do you?  Poisoning, maybe?  Not disease?"

As he cut three generous slices of pie, Mark dismissed the idea out of hand.  "Nah.  Bugs like this are fairly common in large institutions like hospitals, office buildings, schools, and dormitories."

"And police stations," Jesse added, grabbing three mugs and the coffee pot.  "It's really warm tonight," he said.  "Let's have dessert out on the deck."

"Yes, on the deck, and yes, in police stations, too," Mark agreed, chuckling as Steve glared at his young friend.  "Every so often, you'll hear about something like this blowing through a place like an ill wind.  People get sick for a while, productivity drops, people get better, come back to work, and it's business as usual."

"I suppose," Steve hedged, "but isn't it odd that not one patient has it, even though half the staff is home hugging the toilet right now?"

"Not necessarily, Steve," Jesse replied.  "If it's not highly communicable, it could have come from a source the staff comes in regular contact with, but patients and the general public don't have access to."

"I realize that," Steve said, "and it makes me wonder why someone is targeting hospital personnel."

"Nobody is targeting anybody, Son," Mark said with a frustrated sigh as the three of them settled down round the table overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean.  "You just have a suspicious mind."

"It comes with the job, Dad."

"I know," Mark conceded, "But now, I want you to stop inventing conspiracies.  You have a well-deserved four-day weekend ahead of you, and that cabin has been reserved since before Christmas.  Just go, relax, have a good time, and be ready to tell us all about it when you get back"

"Yeah, Steve," Jesse encouraged him, already cleaning the last of the crumbs from his dessert plate.  "Look on the bright side of this.  You and Elaine will have the place to yourselves."

Steve smiled slightly.  "I know, Jess, but the whole point of taking her along in the first place was so you and Dad could meet her.  It just seems every time we make plans, something goes wrong."

"So we'll meet her another time, Son," Mark placated as he poured them all some coffee.  "Amanda tells me she's a lovely girl, and if she's half as good for you as you say she is, I am sure she's perfect."

"Yeah, but knowing Steve, she could be a perfect nut case, too," Jesse said.  "You gonna eat that or what?" he asked, eyeing his friend's pie.

"Jesse, that's enough," Mark admonished.

"Ow," Jesse yelped as Steve whacked the back of his hand with his fork when he attempted to steal a bite of the pie.  Nursing his stinging hand, Jesse looked at Steve pathetically and said, "Ok, so it was a bad joke.  I'm sorry.  But really, Steve, think about it.  You have three days in a beautiful rustic cabin in the wilderness, just you and your girlfriend.  It's the perfect excuse to go native.  Come on, Steve, just a bite.  Please?"

"I'm about to go native and spear your hand with my fork if you don't get it away from my dessert, Jess," Steve growled.  "There's half a pie left in the fridge.  Go help yourself if you're still hungry."

"But I'm not hungry," Jesse said.

"Then why do you want my dessert?"

"Because it was good and I'm not really full yet either.  Please, can I have some?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Please?"

"NO!"

"Children," Mark warned them with an indulgent smile, and the two friends left off their bickering game with a laugh.


	3. Warm Fuzzies

Chapter 3:  Warm Fuzzies 

**(Friday, 04 July, 2003.  0700 hours.)**

"Ready to go?" Steve asked the sexy brunette as she approached his truck when he pulled up outside her apartment complex early Friday morning.

"Babe, I was born ready," Elaine Matthews replied with a saucy grin as she stuffed her duffel bag behind the seat.  "I'm just sorry your dad and your friends couldn't join us."

"Me, too," Steve agreed with a frown as he and Elaine climbed into the truck.  Then he grinned at his girlfriend and said, "but it's like Jesse said last night when they told me they had to cancel.  You have to look on the bright side.  They might not get to meet you this time, but it means you and I get three days alone together in a cabin in the mountains."

"Mmmm," Elaine sighed, snuggling as close to Steve as her seat belt would allow.  "I think I'll really like Jesse when I finally meet him.  He sounds like a pretty smart guy."

"He's very bright," Steve agreed, "but don't let him know I said so."

Elaine giggled and rested her head on Steve's shoulder.  "My lips are sealed," she promised as he put the truck in gear and headed for the highway.  Steve smiled indulgently down at the top of her head.  Elaine often talked about things that gave her the 'warm fuzzies,' and when she curled up beside him and giggled like that, he knew just what she meant.

They rode for some time alternating companionable silence and casual conversation.  To Steve, this relationship seemed to be starting out very well, but he was still being cautious.  Elaine was a civilian police assistant, so she knew all about the risks associated with his job, and over the past three weeks, she had been very understanding about the demanding hours he sometimes had to work.  Even so, for some reason, Steve felt himself holding back.  In his experience, when something seemed too good to be true, it usually was, and while women often truly believed they were ok with the dangers of police work, usually, as soon as something scary happened, they ran for the hills.

This time, Steve was determined not to move too fast.  He wasn't going to give too much of himself away.  He would wait and see if she could accept the realities of his work before he surrendered his heart to her.  He'd been hurt too many times.  He would not let it happen again.

As the city rolled away behind them, Elaine rummaged behind the seat and pulled out a thermos.  

"Coffee?" she asked.

"Sounds good to me.  Dark and sweet?"

"Yep, or light, if you prefer.  I brought some artificial creamer if you want it."

"Ok, great."  

A few minutes later, she handed him the cup, only half full so it didn't spill, and Steve took a gulp.  "Mmmm, that's good."  He drained the cup in two swallows.  "You make great coffee.  Thanks."

"Flatterer," she said, taking the cup back and giving him a playful swat on the shoulder before she refilled it.  "It's instant."

"It's still great.  Can I have some more?"

"Sure."  She handed him the cup, and he quickly emptied it on a short straight away.

"More?" Elaine asked.

"No, thanks, not right now."

She put the lid back on the thermos, and started asking about the cabin.  "Have you been there before?"

"No, but one of Dad's patients recommended it.  He says it's great.  Rustic on the outside, fully furnished on the inside, right down to a wet bar and a hot tub."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Ohhhh, yeahhhh," Steve yawned.  "Maybe I should have another cup of that coffee.  All of a sudden, I feel real sleepy."

The truck drifted across the yellow line, and Steve jerked it back into his lane.  "Man, what's wrong with me?  I am _so sleepy."_

"Sweetheart, maybe you should let me drive," Elaine suggested, somewhat concerned.

Steve fought to keep his eyes open as he looked for a safe spot to pull over.  He realized he was fading fast, and so, on the next straight stretch of road, he slowed to a stop, put on his hazard lights and said, "Sommmmmethinnnnggg'sss wronnnnnggggg.  Fiiiinnnnd hosssspitallll and calllll myyyy daaaad."  Then everything went black.

Elaine unbuckled Steve's seat belt and pulled him across to the passenger side where she buckled him in again.  Then she ran around the truck, climbed in, cut off the hazard lights, and started driving.


	4. In the Water

**Chapter 4:  In the Water**

**(Friday, 04 July 2003.  10:40 hours.)**

Steve drifted slowly awake.  At first, he felt warm and comfortable, and unusually light, and very safe.  Then he realized he was floating, half reclining, in water.  It was warm, and gentle currents caressed his body.  He thought he must have drifted off in the hot tub, but he knew that wasn't right.  He couldn't remember having made it to the cabin.  _So where the hell am I?  The harder he thought, the fuzzier his memories became.  The last thing he could clearly recall was how nice it had felt to have Elaine snuggle up to him as he was pulling into traffic when they left for the weekend.  _What happened to Elaine?__

Something was not adding up, and suddenly, Steve did not feel very safe any more.  He finally opened his eyes to get his bearings, and found he was floating naked and up to his neck in a large, clear glass tub of warm, fragrant water.  _What the hell?  _He tried splashing his way over to the edge of the tub only to realize he was tethered in place by some sort of harness around his head.  One strap wrapped around his forehead, keeping his head tipped back, and another passed under his chin to keep his face out of the water.  In his foggy state of mind, he never noticed that his thrashing had barely disturbed the surface of the water.  _That explains why I didn't drown in my sleep, but what am I doing here?  And where the hell is here?  _The whole room was dark, except for one bright light over the tub.  It made him feel tremendously vulnerable and exposed.

His heart started to thud, and he suddenly realized, he could hear it all around him, coming from the walls.  It beat faster, and the deep pulsing rhythm speeded up, too, causing him to grow more frightened.  He took several deep breaths to calm himself, and heard the _shushhhh_ of rushing air coming from the walls.  They, whoever 'they' were, were using his own fight or flight instincts to heighten his anxiety.  He had no idea what was going to come next, but he was not about to help them.  He closed his eyes again, and focused on the rise and fall of his chest and the sensation of his lungs filling with and expelling air, and made a determined effort to shut out the Thudding of his heart and the _Shushhhhing_ of his breathing.

He still had no idea how he'd gotten here, _Where the hell is 'here', anyway?_ or why he had been taken, but he knew it was nothing good.  He struggled to focus on what had happened after leaving the house this morning, _At least I think it was this morning_, but everything was a jumble.  He remembered talking with Elaine as they drove up the highway.  A cup of coffee, he'd flattered her by saying it was great and asking for more, even though he could tell it was instant by the aroma alone.  _Jesse and his fancy coffee!  Must be rubbing off on me.  She had confessed, and he had admired her honesty.  __Maybe, if I could get out of here, there could be a future for us.  Where the hell is 'here' anyway?_

He realized that his muddled, panicky thoughts were just taking him in circles, so he stopped thinking and focused on the physical act of breathing again.  It was hard to block out the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_, but he almost managed to do so for a while.

"Ah, Lieutenant Sloan," a cultured voice called out of the darkness that surrounded him and his lonely little light and startled him into sudden clarity.  "It's good to see you're finally awake."  

As his senses heightened, he again became aware of the Thudding and _Shushhhhing_ coming from the walls.  They had speeded up when he was startled, and as the Voice continued to speak, the rhythm got even faster.  

"How do you feel, Lieutenant?"

"Violated!" Steve yelled.  "Who are you?  Where am I? What do you want?  Where is my girlfriend?"

The Voice chuckled and said pleasantly, "So many questions, and none of them requiring answers.  Just relax, Lieutenant.  You will not be harmed."

"If you mean me no harm, then let me go!" Steve yelled, fighting panic, trying to ignore the rapid rhythm of his own heartbeat and the heaving of his chest.  

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that just yet, Lieutenant," the Voice crooned.  "We have a lot of work to do before I can send you back home."

"Dammit!  Let me _go_!" Steve shouted, and as he reached around to undo the harness holding his head above the Water, he made the sickening realization that his hands and feet were secured below the surface, and the noises from the walls grew louder and faster.  

"Oh, calm down, Lieutenant," the Voice said soothingly, but mildly amused, "everything will be all right."

_They must have a parabolic microphone out there or a monitor hooked up to the tub behind me._  Steve tried to peer into the darkness, looking for the distinctive dish-shaped listening device, but the room felt cavernous and there was nothing visible in it but him in his watery cage.  Looking over his shoulder for the monitor was impossible because his restraints prevented any movement beyond a mild splashing about.  The Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ bumped up another notch with his frustration and the volume increased again; and again, Steve tried to calm himself.  If he panicked, he knew it was all over; they could do whatever they wanted with him.  As he closed his eyes and visualized his heart beating, a slow, steady, healthy rhythm, and his lungs filling with oxygen and emptying out again, the Thudding and _Shushhhhing_ slowed and grew quieter.

_So, they bump up the volume whenever I panic.  I can't afford to panic._  He forced himself to remain as calm and still as possible.  After several minutes of just floating in the water, eyes closed and breathing, the room was finally quiet again, and Steve could think.

"ALLLLLL RRRRRIGHTY, THEN!" the Voice shouted and laughed uproariously, and suddenly, the Thudding returned, loud and fast as the noise of a helicopter, and the _Shushhhhing_ became the roaring of waves pounding the beach.  "Let's get started."

A large, effervescent tablet plopped into the Water near Steve, and he jumped.  

"It won't hurt youuuuuuuu," the Voice crooned.

The surface bubbles teased his face, and, frightened, Steve began to struggle.  The Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ kept getting louder.  The tablet tickled as it drifted onto his chest and slid its way down his body, and Steve fought harder, knowing it could be nothing good.  

"It will make you feel gooooooood," the Voice murmured, soothingly.

The tablet slipped off his belly, and as the bubbles rose through the warm Water to vex his legs and back, all the fight went out of him, and slowly, the Thudding and _Shushhhhing_ began to fade.

"Thaaaaat'ssss it.  Juuuuusssssst givvvvvve innnnnn," the Voice tempted him, and finally, the room grew quiet.  Deep down, Steve was still very afraid and knew something bad was happening, but he just couldn't bring the rest of himself to care.  The Water was so warm, the golden light above him so pleasant, and the Voice, God, the Voice.  The Voice had made it quiet.  He grew slightly dizzy, as if he had a mild buzz on, and he couldn't quite remember why he was scared.

Fuzzy images began to flash on the walls around him.  Maybe the images were clear and his vision was fuzzy.  Either way, the pictures did not stay up quite long enough for him to focus on them, but he recognized every one.  They were happy scenes, snapshots of precious moments from his life.  He stood with his father and sister by the Christmas tree, surrounded by friends, singing a Christmas carol.  As a little boy, he sat on the beach, building sand castles with his mother.  The grand opening of BBQ Bob's.  Watching a Lakers game with his dad and Jack.  Holding CJ for the first time.  Soon, Steve was floating happily in the warm, sweet smelling Water, watching through half-shut eyes as the most treasured moments of his life played out before him.  He thought he must be dying and this was his life flashing before his eyes, but the experience was so delightful, he didn't want it to end.

An unexpectedly clear image of himself in the hospital, bloodied bandages around his chest, a tube down his throat, more tubes and wires leading off of him in every direction flashed before him for a moment as electric agony coursed through his body, causing him to convulse momentarily.  The Thudding and _Shushhhhing_ returned, roaring in his ears, making the water around him tremble.  He could feel it in his bones.  A familiar face appeared before him, superimposed over the picture of himself, and above the sound of his own agonized screams, he heard the Voice speaking.  As he writhed and screamed in Pain, his own image faded away, and the Face continued staring at him.  The torture grew inexplicably worse, and finally, he passed out.

~~~~~

Steve came to again and began to weep.  He had lost track of the number of times he had blacked out.  The Voice and the Face and the Pain and the Water were his constant companions now.  The Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ only came when he was hurt and frightened, and the Voice made them go away.  The Voice had been telling him all along how to make the bad things go away for good, but Steve just wasn't sure he could do that.  

It had been so long since Steve had seen a nice memory, he was beginning to think the pleasant images had been only figments of his imagination, but then sometimes, a woman was there, and she would drink wine with him and they would talk.  Then everything would go dark, and he would find himself in the Water again, and there would be another bad picture, and the Face and the Pain and the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ would come back, and he could never be sure what was real and what he was imagining.  If he had died, surely, he was in hell, and if he were still alive, he could only hope death would be a relief.  The Voice, the Face, the Pain and the Water, the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_, were his reality, everything else, his father and friends, his home, the woman with her wine and conversation, all of it had been just a dream.  He knew it was all a dream, for the Voice had told him so.

"No," he sobbed weakly as the bad pictures began flashing again.  His father in jail.  Jesse, bloodied and battered.  The hospital in flames.  Amanda crying and bleeding from a wound in her arm.  From behind all the terrible images, the Face stared at him.  Steve tried to close his eyes to what he had been seeing, but at some point when he had blacked out, something had been done to make even that impossible, and now his only respite from the bad pictures was unconsciousness.  The Pain began again, but for once, the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ were not there, and suddenly, he knew he had been pushed beyond the limits of his endurance.  

"Please, no more," Steve pleaded splashing feebly in the Water.  "Please, stop.  Please, make it stop." 

"Are you sure?" the Voice asked.

"Yes.  Please," he begged as the Pain intensified.  "No more.  Please, make it stop."

"This is your life, Steve," the Voice said.  "If it stops, you will die."

"I don't care!" he wept.  The Water splashed around him as he writhed in Pain.  "I can't take any more!  Make it stop!  Make it be over!  Please!"  The Voice had called him something else once, a title, something official, not his name, but he couldn't remember what, so it didn't matter any more.  If it wasn't real now, it just wasn't real.

"You would die to stop the Pain?" the Voice asked.

"Yes!" Steve wailed.  "God, yes!  Please, _please_ make it stop!"

"What else would you do to make the Pain go away?"

"Anything!  I would do anything to stop it!"  Steve didn't care that he was pleading.  He thought he could remember a time when he was too proud to beg a bully to leave him alone, but that had been so long ago, back in the imaginary life, that it didn't matter anymore.  It was no more real now than the title the voice had once called him.

"Very good," the Voice praised him.  "Then listen to me."

Steve listened intently to the Voice.  It was soft and warm and pleasant, like the Water, but the Water was treacherous.  The Water brought the Pain.  The Water let the Pain surround him and course through him so he couldn't get away.  But the Voice, ah, the Voice.  He could trust the Voice.  As it droned on, encouraging him, giving him instructions, the Pain subsided.

The warm, fuzzy images slowly returned as the Voice rambled on.  Sometimes the Face returned, and with it the Pain, and the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_, but the longer and harder he listened to the Voice, the less he saw the Face, the less he felt the Pain, and the less he heard of those hateful noises.  He knew if he just listened to the Voice, it would save him.  Eventually, he realized that he couldn't even remember the last time he had felt the Pain or seen the Face.  Finally, he felt he could trust the Water again.

"Will you do that to make it stop?" asked the Voice.

"Yes," Steve said rapturously, "oh, yes."  He knew he would do anything for the Voice because it had made the Face and the Pain go away and it had made the Water nice again.

Another tablet dropped into the water and tickled and teased him as it dissolved.  He giggled as the bubbles caressed his legs on their way up, and everything went black.


	5. Missing Details and Nightmares

Chapter 5: Missing Details and Nightmares 

**(Sunday, 06 July, 2003.  2100 hours.)**

"Hey, Dad, I'm home," Steve called as he came bounding up the stairs from his apartment, where he had already gone to drop off his duffel bag.

"What are you doing here?" Mark asked his son.

"Well, gee, Dad, it's nice to see you, too," Steve replied with a laugh.

Mark frowned to realize how his greeting must have sounded, and said, "Sorry about that, Son.  Welcome home.  I just didn't expect you back so soon.  What happened?"

"It's ok, Dad," Steve said, "Turns out Elaine couldn't get tomorrow off, so we drove back this evening.  Do you have anything left over from dinner?  I'm starving."

"You always are," Mark muttered in amusement as he waved his son into the kitchen and followed him.  "How about chicken breast stuffed with spinach and pine nuts on a bed of linguine topped with a vegetable cheese sauce?"  He rummaged around in the refrigerator to see what else he had that his son might like.  "Fresh green beans on the side and a fruit parfait for dessert sound ok?"

"That sounds great, Dad," Steve answered.  "Will it go with beer, or are you going to make me drink wine with it?"

"Philistine," Mark laughed.  "You may have your beer, if you must, unless you would prefer an ice cream float and French fries instead of green beans."

"No thanks," Steve said, grinning.  "Beer and green beans will be just fine, Dad."

As his dad filled his plate for him, Steve got himself a beer and set out his place mat, napkin, and silverware.  Then he took a seat at the table and waited for his father to bring him his dinner.  He knew better than to interfere in the kitchen.

"So," Mark said as he set Steve's plate before him and sat down across the table, "how was your trip?  Did you like the cabin?"

"Oh, yeah," Steve enthused, shoveling in huge mouthfuls of linguine and chicken, "it was great!  Elaine and I stayed in all weekend . . . "

"Really?  You spent a whole weekend up in the beautiful mountains and never went for a hike or a walk around the lake or anything?" Mark teased.  "This girl must be something special."

Steve grinned, took a pull from his beer and said, "She sure is, Dad.  I really think you're going to like her."

The moment Steve stopped talking about his new girlfriend, his face went blank, and he began to scarf down his green beans.  As Mark studied his son's expression, he noticed Steve was pale and his eyes were bloodshot.  

"Son," Mark asked gently, somewhat concerned, "did something happen this weekend?"  
  


"What?  No, no, Dad," Steve grinned again, then frowned, then smiled.  "The cabin was great!  Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of yesterday in and out of the hot tub."  He sighed contentedly and started on his parfait.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

"So what did you do while you were there?"

"Nothing," Steve said, scraping the last of his dessert from the dish.  

Mark just couldn't get past Steve's appearance.  The dark circles under his eyes said something had happened.  Trying once more, he said suggestively, "That woman wore you out, didn't she?"

"No, Dad, we just hung out, relaxed, and enjoyed the hot tub."

"Uh-huh.  Sure you did."

"Well, I suppose we might have stayed up kind of late," Steve finally admitted, blushing slightly.

"And now the truth comes out!" Mark crowed.

"Dad, will you stop it?  I'm a grown man."

Chuckling, Mark said, "I know, Son, and I'll stop now.  You just looked so tired; I knew when you told me you hadn't done anything you had to be lying.  I just needed to be sure you were ok."

Steve responded warmly to his father's affectionate concern.  "I am, Dad," he said with a smile.  "I am _really ok."  He yawned and stretched, and said, "But I am _really_ tired, too.  I think I'll turn in early."  As he got up from the table and carried his dishes to the sink, he asked, "By the way.  Did Amanda figure out what the bug was that knocked out everyone in the ER?"_

"Yeah, she did.  It was giardia in the water coolers in the doctors' lounge and behind the nurses' station.  We checked with the delivery company, and apparently, there was a malfunction in their treatment system.  A whole days' run was contaminated, but fortunately, those two bottles were the first of the lot to be used, and Amanda worked it out really quickly, so nobody else is going to get sick from it."  Mark smiled, "The owner of the company was so grateful for her help, he made a $10,000 donation to the path lab budget on the spot."

"Wow, that's quite a feather in her cap," Steve said, "but don't you think it's a little odd that the only two bottles from the batch to be delivered ended up decimating the ER staff at Community General?"

"I suppose you could look at it like that," Mark said, "but then you have to ask yourself, if it was intentional, who would do it, and to what end?  What could they hope to accomplish?"  Shaking his head, Mark said, "No, I think it was just a lucky break for the bottled water company that it came to us first and we figured out what the problem was before anyone else got sick."

"I suppose," Steve agreed, "but if you come up with a motive for it, let me know."  With that, he headed down stairs, leaving his father behind to chuckle at him.  It was barely nine thirty.  That woman had certainly worn him out this weekend.  If she'd have had Monday off, too, Steve might not have made it home.

**(Monday, 07 July, 2003.  0030 hours.)**HHH

Mark rolled over and looked at the clock, twelve thirty.  What was he doing awake?

"Please, no!  No more!"

Mark was out of bed in an instant, thrusting his feet into his slippers and his arms into his robe.  Of course, Steve was having a nightmare.  Ever since Steve was a baby, the only thing other than a call from the hospital that could so quickly rouse Mark Sloan from a sound sleep was the voice of his child crying out in the night.

"Yes, yes, anything!  Just make it stop.  Please!"

As Mark heard the anguish in his son's voice, he hurried his steps, clambering down to Steve's apartment and letting himself into the bedroom.  What he saw shocked him as nothing ever had.  Steve stood holding out his hands as if gripping a gun, not with the thumb up and the index finger pointing forward as many people did when they pretended to shoot, but with his fingers wrapped around the imaginary grip, his index finger on the invisible trigger.  Tears were streaming down his face.  Three times, his hand jerked as he fired the chimerical gun, then he mouthed some words too softly for Mark to hear, and once more, he pulled the trigger.  Then he dropped his hands to his sides, bowed his head, and grew very, very still.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  "I had to do it."

After a moment, Steve looked up, and Mark knew he was awake.  In the dim light from the hall, the confusion and residual fear he saw on his son's face tore at Mark's heart.

"Steve," he called softly so as not to startle him.

"Dad?  What?  How?  What happened?"

"You had a nightmare, Son," Mark said moving slowly into the room and putting a hand on Steve's broad back.  He couldn't help but notice that the shirt he wore was soaked through with sweat.

"I-I don't . . . I can't . . . remember, Dad."  Steve was not so much telling his dad what he was feeling as he was pleading for information, and Mark regretted that he couldn't provide much.

"You were calling out in your sleep," Mark said soothingly as he guided his son back to bed.  "Begging someone to stop something."  Mark saw that the sheets were also dark with perspiration, but as Steve immediately sat on the bed and drew his legs up under the covers, clearly still disoriented and vague, he just let it go.  There would be time enough to change them in the morning.  "What did you want them to stop, Steve?"

"I-I don't know, Dad," he automatically curled into a fetal position as he lay down, not even noticing the damp sheets.

"You said you would do anything to make it stop," Mark told him as he pulled the covers up over his son's shoulders, tucking him in as he had when Steve was a child, "When I got here, you were standing at the foot of the bed, shooting someone in your sleep.  Who was it, son?"

"I don't know, Dad," Steve said, a little less shaky this time.  "I guess it was just a really bad dream.  I'm sorry I woke you."

"That's ok, Son.  Are you sure you don't remember anything about it?"

"No, Dad, nothing."  He yawned loudly, then, and rolled over on his stomach.  "Maybe if I sleep in a different position, it won't come back."

"Ok, Son, you do that," Mark said trying to sound amused although he was deeply worried.  "I'm going back to bed, myself."

"Dad?"  The single plaintive word stopped Mark at the door.

"Yes, Son?"

"Stay with me until I fall asleep?"

Mark sighed and smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his son's back until his breathing deepened and evened out.

**(Monday, 07 July, 2003.  1200 hours.)**

As Steve entered the lounge with take out from BBQ Bob's, Jesse took a deep breath and said, "That must be what heaven smells like," as he reached for the tray of ribs, coleslaw and baked beans Steve had brought him.

"Oh, no, my little friend," Steve corrected him, unloading the takeout box.  "That is the smell of money.  Since we ran our Independence Day specials, sales are up about ten percent."

"You're kidding!" Mark exclaimed, impressed, and began to unwrap the shredded pork sandwich he had ordered for lunch.

"Nope, I checked the books today," Steve said.  "We've got a few new regular customers, and while it may slack off some as the summer draws to a close, we still have Labor Day, and I have a feeling some of the people who tried us for the first time over the weekend will be calling for party packs and catering jobs in the future."HHH

"So, Steve," Jesse began teasingly, "how was the weekend with Elaine?"

For a moment, Steve's face went blank, as if the sudden change in topic had confused him, then he grinned animatedly and his eyes began to twinkle.  "The cabin was great, Jess!  Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  He sighed contentedly and gathered up a meal, a drink, and all the trappings that went with a takeout order from BBQ Bob's.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

Steve didn't notice his dad's troubled frown as he rambled on.  "Now, I hate to run off like this, but Amanda called me at the restaurant and said she wouldn't be able to join you two for lunch today, but I promised to drop off her meal for her before I left."

"Oh," Mark said, "and just where are you going?"

"I'm going to meet Elaine for lunch," Steve said.  "She promised to wait for me until one o'clock.  I'll see you later, Dad, Jess."

"Yeah, ok, see you later, Son," Mark said absently, but Steve was already gone, and only Jesse noticed the elder Sloan's distraction.

"Mark, what's up?"

"I don't know, Jesse, just a feeling."

"What kind of feeling?  About what?"

"A bad feeling, Jess.  A very bad feeling about this Elaine who has Steve so captivated."

Mark moved to the phone and dialed an internal extension.  When the other party picked up, he said, "Amanda, I need a favor."

**(Monday, 07 July, 2003.  1215 hours.)**

Amanda barely managed to put in a new tape and hit the record button before Steve walked into the lab.  She just hoped he didn't realize she was taping him while they talked, and she wished she knew why Mark had asked her to record their conversation.

"Hi, Steve," she said smiling as he walked into the lab.  "How was your weekend?"

"Amanda, the cabin was great!" he said enthusiastically as he placed her meal on her desk.  "Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  He sighed contentedly and leaned back against the lockers.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

"Yeah?  That's good.  What did you do there?"

Steve's expression went blank a moment, then he smiled and said, "Nothing, really.  Just stayed in the cabin and relaxed.  Spent a lot of time in the hot tub."

"What else did you do, Son?"

Steve turned in surprise at the sound of his father's voice.  "Something wrong, Dad?  Jess?" he asked, puzzled.  "I got your orders right, didn't I?"

"Yes, Steve, lunch is fine," Mark assured him, "but I am very concerned that there is something wrong with you."

"What do you mean, Dad?  Didn't we clear this up last night?  I told you I didn't sleep much, but I had a really good time.  The cabin was . . . "

" . . . great," Mark interrupted.  "I know.  You and Elaine stayed in all weekend.  You spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  Mark sighed deeply and leaned against the autopsy table.  "You think it was just the break you needed."

"Hey, you're good," Jesse marveled at Mark's performance as Steve frowned.  "I always knew you had one heck of a memory, but that's amazing.  That was _exactly what he said to me a few minutes ago."_

"Yeah," Amanda said, "and it's just what he told me right before you two came in.  How did you remember it so exactly, Mark?"

"Because I have heard it three times, now, almost word for word.  Once last night and twice today."  Mark looked at his son and said, "Steve, what really happened this weekend?  What was your nightmare about last night?"

In unison, Jesse, Amanda, and Steve asked, "Nightmare?"

"Yes, Son," Mark said, looking Steve in the eye.  "Don't you remember?  You were standing at the foot of the bed, shooting at someone in your sleep."

"Steve?" Amanda queried.

"Hey, buddy, what's up?" Jesse asked.

"N-nothing as far as I know.  What nightmare, Dad?"

"Steve, Amanda and Jesse are your friends, you know that.  You don't have to pretend for them.  Tell them about your bad dream."

"I can't, Dad," Steve was growing frustrated.  "This is the first I've heard of it."

Mark was confused now.  Even if he had not recalled the frightening images, there was just no way his son could have forgotten their conversation in the wee hours.  "Steve, last night we talked about the dream.  You didn't remember it then, either, but you were awake when we discussed it.  Why lie about it?"

"I'm not lying, Dad!" Steve insisted.  "I just don't remember."

"Steve, you asked me to sit with you until you fell asleep."  Mark was growing increasingly worried as Steve became more agitated, and to calm him, he lowered his voice and spoke soothingly.  "Come on, Son.  Let's all go up to my office and we can work this out."

For a moment, Steve hesitated, then he put his foot down.  "No!  No, Dad, there is nothing to work out because I'm fine.  Maybe there's something wrong with you," he said tensely, "but I am perfectly all right."

"Ok, then," Mark continued to speak smoothly, "tell me about your weekend."

"I _did_, dammit!" Steve shouted. "The cabin was great!  Elaine and I . . ."

" . . . stayed in all weekend."  Jesse said, clearly worried.  "We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  

Amanda sighed and leaned back in her chair, also concerned.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

"That's not even funny, guys," Steve said, his voice pitched low and dangerous.

"It's not a joke, pal," Jesse said, moving closer.  

Amanda rewound the tape.  She had no idea what was going on, but Steve was obviously distressed and unwilling to admit what was troubling him.  Maybe making her friend listen to his own words again would shake something loose and convince him to let them help.  When the tape finished rewinding, she hit play.

"Amanda, the cabin was great!" Steve heard himself say enthusiastically, and an icy chill slipped down his spine.  "Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  He heard a deep sigh.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

Steve looked desperately from Amanda to Jesse to his father, and for a moment, he felt panic rise.  Then some tiny rational part of his brain said this was ridiculous, and he told his father and friends as much.

"Look, guys, this is ridiculous," he said.  "I'm over forty years old.  Closer to fifty than forty as a matter of fact, and I am old enough now to do some things you might not want all the details about.  Maybe I just don't want you to know what I did."

"What color were the curtains, Steve?"

"What?"

"The curtains, at the cabin," Amanda elaborated.  "What color were they?"

"I'm a guy Amanda, do you really think I noticed the curtains?"

"Ok, then, the carpet?  What color was it?"

"Pffft!  Like that's any different from the curtains," Steve said derisively.  

"Was there carpet?" Jesse asked.  "Or were the floors hardwood or tile or linoleum?"

For just a moment, Mark saw pure panic flash in his son's eyes, then it was replaced by the dark thunderclouds of anger.

"I . . . It . . . It doesn't matter!" Steve snapped.  Then he managed to reign his temper just enough to speak his piece before leaving.  "Elaine and I went to the cabin.  We had a good time.  End of story.  Just because I don't want to tell you the rest doesn't mean something went wrong, so just _get off my back_, dammit!"  Turning to Amanda, he said, "Unless you have a warrant, it is against the law to record someone's conversation without their knowledge and without their consent."  Facing his father, he said, "Dad, I'll see you at home."

Steve stormed out of the lab, slamming the door behind him so hard the glass rattled.

"Wow," Jesse said, almost in awe.  "That is one seriously troubled man."

"Hmmm," Mark said.  "I'm afraid you're right, and I think I'm going to need your help to help him."

"Whatever it takes, Mark," Jesse said, "I'm there."

"Yes," Amanda said, putting a protective arm around her old friend's shoulders.  "All you need to do is ask."

"Thank you, guys.  It's nice to know my son has friends like you two."

**(Monday, 07 July, 2003.  1230 hours.)**

Steve sat in his truck shaking and breathing heavily.  What was wrong with his dad?  So he didn't want to tell them all about the weekend.  He'd had a wonderful time with Elaine, relaxing in the hot tub, and he'd come home early because she hadn't been able to get Monday off.  So what if he didn't want to give them all the details?  That didn't mean there was anything wrong with him.

So why was he so frightened, and why was he shaking so bad?  And just what were the details of the weekend?  Did the cabin have carpet?

It took several minutes for the shaking to subside.  They'd had some wine, hadn't they?  Maybe he'd had too much.  That was it!  Steve smiled, feeling much better.  Between the wine and the hot tub, he'd just forgotten the little things.  His memories were fuzzy around the edges, but it was nothing serious.  When his dad got home, he'd explain, and everything would be ok.

With a satisfied sigh, he started the truck and headed off to meet Elaine for lunch.

**(Monday, 07 July, 2003.  1830 hours.)**

"So you see," Steve finished explaining over dinner at the beach house, "I was probably just a little drunk, and between the alcohol and the hot tub, I guess the details got kind of fuzzy."

"The whole weekend, Steve?" Jesse asked incredulously, but when Mark shot him a warning look that Steve did not see, he continued talking so Steve didn't have to defend his hypothesis.  "I guess it could happen, a pretty woman, a good vintage, a hot tub for two, and all the time in the world.  Sure, why not?"

"So," Mark asked, trying hard to be subtle.  "How was lunch with Elaine?"

"Not bad.  We went to some Japanese restaurant she likes.  I can't even pronounce the name of it."

"What did you have?"

"Something with lots of rice," Steve replied.

"Well, _duh_!" Jesse exclaimed.  "What else was in it?"

"I don't know," Steve said.  "Elaine ordered it for me while I was in the men's room, but it sure didn't fill me up at all.  It's a good thing you made lots of lasagna, Dad.  I was starving all afternoon!"

"Oh?  What else did you have at lunch?" Mark asked.

"We finished off the meal with green tea and some fruity gelatinous little thing.  I think it might have been candy.  I'm not real sure."

Oblivious to the knowing look shared between Mark and Jesse when he couldn't positively identify a single thing he'd eaten for lunch or name the restaurant he'd visited with Elaine, Steve stood up from the table and gathered their plates.

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0015 hours.)**

"Please, no!  No more!"

Mark wished it wasn't happening, but Steve was having another nightmare, and it sounded just as bad as last night.

"Yes, yes, anything, just make it stop!  Please!  Oh, God!  Please make it stop!"  Mark flew down the stairs to the desperate pleading of his son's voice.

If what he saw before shocked him, the scene that unfolded before him tonight terrified him, and he was glad Jesse had managed to linger around until it was too late to drive home.  There was no way Mark could have faced this particular nightmare alone.

Just as before, Steve stood holding out his hands as if gripping a gun, again with tears streaming down his face.  Three times, his hand jerked as he fired, then he spoke silently, and pulled the trigger again.  

"My God, Mark," Jesse whispered.  "He's . . . he's murdering someone."

"Shh, Jess," Mark hushed him.  "It's not quite over yet."

Instead of the whispered apology Mark had witnessed the previous night, the scene took a new twist.  Sobbing as if his heart would break, Steve cried, "I'm sorry!  I'm so sorry, but I had to do it!  I had to do it to make the Pain stop!"  Then, to Mark and Jesse's absolute horror, Steve turned the invisible gun on himself and fired.  

In his head, Mark knew he was just seeing a dream acted out by his sleepwalking son, but in his heart, he knew he was watching his beloved child commit suicide.  

"Steve!  No!"  As Steve's knees buckled, Mark ran to him, Jesse close on his heels, and the two of them supported the big man as they led him back to his bed and eased him down.

"Huh?  Wha'?  Dad?  Jess?  Why are you still here?"  Steve was slowly coming round, but in Jesse's estimation, Mark was in shock, close to passing out, so he ignored the younger Sloan for a moment to check on the elder.

"Mark, he's ok.  You know that, right?"  He caught the older man's chin and gently turned Mark to face him.  "You can see he's all right, can't you?"

"What?  Oh, yes, yes, I know he's fine," Mark said vaguely.  "Take care of him, Jess.  Please?  Help him?"

"I'll do what I can, Mark."

"Jess, what the hell are you doing in my bedroom?"  Steve could hear the Thudding of his heart, and the _Shushhhhing_ of his breath came much too fast.  Though he still didn't remember the nightmare from the previous evening, he suspected he had just awakened from another, and judging by his father's complexion, it had been a bad one.

"Just a second, big guy," Jesse said and scurried to the hall to get his medical bag, which he had slipped out to his car to retrieve earlier in the evening as soon as Steve had gone downstairs to bed, "I need to check you over."

"Now hold on, Jesse it was just . . . "

"Shut up!" Jesse yelled, making Steve jump.  "I just stood there and watched you commit murder and suicide in your sleep, dammit, and you said you had to do it to make the pain go away.  Don't you _dare tell me it was just a bad dream!"_

Steve saw the tears and the fright in his friend's eyes.  Looking to his dad, he realized the older man was still in shock from what he had seen.  Steve couldn't remember any of it, he couldn't recall the last nightmare, and he was missing all the details of the weekend, too.  He could no longer deny that something was seriously wrong.

"Dad, Jess, help me."

"We will, Son," Mark reassured him, stroking his hair with a trembling hand as Jesse pumped up the blood pressure cuff, "We will."

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0130 hours.)**

"Ok, Son, are you comfortable?"

"I . . . I guess so," Steve said and shifted uneasily in the big leather recliner in his father's living room.  He had managed to recall everything up to the moment he had stopped the truck for Elaine to drive, but after that, all he remembered were vague images of the cabin and the hot tub and too much wine.

It had taken Jesse and his dad almost an hour to convince Steve to let himself be hypnotized, and then, when he finally consented, insisting his dad be the one to do it, they had almost backed out.  They had finally reached a compromise when he had agreed to discuss with a psychiatrist any memories he recovered during this session.  To be sure nothing was missed, his dad had set up the camcorder off in the corner where it would not intrude, but now that his dad and Jess were on board with the idea, Steve was feeling uneasy again.  If he really had done in his sleep what Jesse had described, he wasn't sure he wanted to retrieve the missing details of his lost weekend.

Mark smiled encouragingly and rubbed his son's arm gently.  "Ok, Steve, the first thing you need to do is just relax.  Remember that it's just Jesse and me here.  You trust us, right?"

"Absolutely," Steve said without hesitation, and when his dad and Jesse smiled at each other, Steve smiled, too.  There was no one in the world he trusted more, and Amanda was the only person he trusted as much.

"Good," Mark said in a calm, soothing voice.  "Jesse, get the lights please."

Jesse obligingly dimmed the living room lights and then turned on his penlight and set it on the coffee table in front of Steve before he came over to sit in a dining room chair that had been placed beside him.

"Ok, Son," Mark said in that smooth, calm voice.  "I want you to focus on the light.  Just stare at it, and take deep, slow breaths, and relax, can you do that?"

"Yes, Dad."

Steve lost track of how long he had been staring at the light and breathing deeply.  His father had been talking to him softly the whole time.  Though Jesse hadn't said or done anything since he'd taken care of the lights, Steve could feel the young man's comforting presence beside him as he slipped deeper and deeper into his subconscious.

"Still with me, Son?" he heard his father ask.

"Yessss."

"Good.  Now remember, you are perfectly safe.  Nothing can hurt you now, because what ever you see, it's just memories, ok?"

"Yessss."

"Good.  Jesse's going to take your hand, Steve, to anchor you here with us."  Steve felt the warm, dry hand slip into his own.  "If you feel you need to step back from the memories, just squeeze his hand, and we'll help you come back from them, ok?"

"Kayyy."

"Now, remember when you stopped the truck on PCH and turned on the hazard lights?"

"Yessss."

"Good.  Ok, Steve, I want you to take a deep breath, and, when you're ready, tell me what happened next . . . "

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0315 hours.)**

"Ok, Son," Mark said, still in that same soothing monotone, "when I count to three, you will wake up feeling relaxed and refreshed.  You'll go back to bed, and sleep well the rest of the night.  Understand?"

"Yessss."

Mark exchanged a look with Jesse, seeking confirmation that he was doing the right thing.  When Jesse nodded, he counted slowly, "One . . . two . . . three."

Steve's eyes fluttered open, and after he took a moment to get his bearings, he looked from his dad to Jesse and asked, "Well?  What was it?  What happened to me?  What did I remember?"

"Nothing," his dad said disgustedly.  

"_Nothing?  How long was I under?"_

"About two hours," Jesse said.

"Two _hours_?_  And I remembered __nothing?"_

"Son, I'm sorry," Mark said.  "I tried everything I could think of, but every time you approached the hidden memories, you backed away.  I was afraid to push you, because I don't really have the proper training to deal with anything that might have gone wrong.  I'm sorry."

"It . . . it's ok, Dad, but what do I do now?  Will I . . . What if . . . Could I . . . Could someone make me commit murder, Dad?"

"No, Son," Mark reassured him, "it's just a myth that a hypnotists can make you do something against your will.  They can't make you do anything you wouldn't choose to do on your own."

"But, Dad, I'm a cop.  Compared to the average person, I've killed lots of people."

"That's true, Steve," Jesse said, placing his hand on his friend's arm, "but you're a homicide cop.  Every day, you deal with the consequences of murder.  You might have killed someone in self-defense or in defense of another, but you would never, ever commit murder, and no one could make you do it against your will."

"You're sure about that?" Steve asked his friend.

Patting Steve's arm as he stood up, Jesse said, "Absolutely."

Looking from his friend to his dad, Steve asked, "Ok, so what do I do now?"

"Well," Mark said, "you're due at the station in less than six hours.  I think you should get some sleep."

"That's it?  Just go to bed?"

"Yes.  No one can make you do anything you don't want to, Son," Mark explained,  "and as long as you are feeling ok in the morning, I think you should just go to work and make an appointment with a psychiatrist later in the week.  You can sleep in my bed, if you'd like."

Steve considered the advice, and the offer.  As a child, whenever he'd had nightmares, sleeping in his parents' bed for the rest of the night had always prevented them from recurring.  Jesse had been worried enough about him earlier that he would never dream of making fun of him for it now.

"I wouldn't want to put you out, Dad."

"For one night it's not a problem, Son," Mark reassured him.  "If it will help you get a good night's sleep, it's well worth it."

"Yeah," Jesse agreed.  "You can sleep in your dad's bed, he can take the guest bedroom, and I'll just curl up on the couch, and that way, if you need us, we'll be right here, ok?"

"Well . . . ok."  Steve gave a small frightened smile, and said, "Thanks, guys." 

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0330 hours.)**

After a little more conversation and a glass of warm milk, Steve settled down into his father's bed with a sigh.  In a way, it was like he was five years old again, and as the familiar smell enveloped him, he felt completely safe and secure.  Nothing in the world could hurt him now.  He was completely, utterly, undeniably safe.

"I really appreciate this, Dad," he said.

"I'm glad to do it, Son," Mark said, tousling his hair.  "You know that."  He tucked the covers closer around Steve, as he had when his son was a small child, and, on a whim, since Jesse wasn't there to embarrass either of them, he kissed his grown up boy on the forehead as he had done years ago.  Then he sat on the edge of the bed and took Steve's hand and sat with him until he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight, Mark knew he could keep his boy safe.


	6. Who and How and Why

**Chapter 6: Who and How and Why**

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0930 hours)**

"Chief, I have a message for you," Steve Sloan hung up his phone and called to his superior as Chief Masters walked past the door on the way to his office. 

In a rare considerate gesture, Masters entered the squad room, meeting halfway the talented lieutenant who had earned his grudging respect.

"What is it, Sloan?"

In a smooth, fluid motion, Steve pulled out his service weapon and fired three rounds into the Chief's chest.  As the older man lay at his feet, bloodied and writhing in agony, Steve spat on him and replied, "Mateo says he'll see you in hell."

Steve raised his weapon one more time, and with only a slight tremor, pointed it at the Chief's head.  The shaking stopped, and Steve fired.  As he began to apologize, he turned the gun on himself, but before he could shoot again, four large bodies hit him hard, and everything went black.

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  0940 hours)**

As his unconscious lieutenant was carted away in a straight jacket on a stretcher, Chief Masters allowed Captain Jim Newman to help him to his feet.  He'd worn his kevlar underneath his clothes just in case Banks hadn't been able to exchange the bullets in Sloan's gun for blanks, but now he was extremely glad she had pulled off the switch.  That last round was a definite kill shot, and if the slugs had been real, he'd have a gaping hole in his forehead instead of just powder burns.  As it was, he was lucky to be alive.  If the muzzle of the gun had been much closer to his head, the force of the exploding blank would have blown a chunk of skull straight into his brain.

Walking over to Doctor Sloan, who had been waiting down the block in an ambulance, he said, "As soon as you get him to the hospital, draw three vials of blood and get them to Cinnamon Carter or Dane Travis and have them run a level ten tox screen, do you understand?"

"Who?"

"No games, Dr. Sloan.  I know that you know who I'm talking about.  How I know them doesn't matter."

"But . . . "

"Listen to me . . . Mark," the Chief used the older man's first name to emphasize his point, "someone used some powerful psychoactive drugs to get your son to do what he did here today."

"We can take care of him at Community General," Mark insisted.

"Not this time, Doctor.  This is stuff civilians usually never see," Masters explained to the worried father.  "Travis and Cinnamon, and some of the people they know, can help him, if they get to him in time.  If they don't treat him before the drugs are out of his system, though, the memory blocks will solidify.  What happened today, and everything leading up to it will be a big empty space in his life and in his mind.  If that happens, I will no longer be able to trust him, and he will never work on my police force again."

"What about the people who did this to him?"

"Steve was programmed to deliver a message before he killed me.  I know who got to him, Dr. Sloan.  I also know how and I know at least part of the reason why.  I will deal with these people personally," the Chief promised.  "All you need to do is take care of your son.  Help him get past this, convince me he's ok, and he can have his gun and badge back, no questions asked."

Mark studied the Chief's face a moment, and saw anger, concern, sympathy, and sincerity in the hard gray eyes.  Only the anger was not for him and his son.  Nodding, he said, "Three blood samples.  A level ten tox screen."

"Right."

"Ok, I'll take care of it.  You should have someone look at those powder burns soon."

"When I have the time, Doctor."

As Dr. Sloan left, Masters addressed the men and women he had selected to deal with this particular crisis.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, listen closely, because I will not repeat this."  When he was sure he had everyone's attention, he spoke plainly with his people.  They were good officers, every one of them, and he knew he could trust them to follow orders.

"Lieutenant Sloan was acting under duress and under the influence of some powerful drugs that were given to him without his knowledge or consent.  He is not responsible for his actions here today, and I will not be pressing charges."

There were some surprised murmurs at that, but Masters silenced them by quietly clearing his throat.

"If he recovers from his experience, he will return to active duty, and he will be treated with all the respect due an officer of his rank and achievements.  Nothing that happened here today will ever be mentioned again, neither in this room nor outside of it, neither to your families, nor other officers, nor the press, nor the DA, and especially not to Lieutenant Sloan himself."

There were more mutterings, and this time the Chief let his voice cut across them as he spoke louder to drive his point home.

"If I _ever_ hear a word of this incident breathed inside or outside of the department, I will find the individual responsible for the leak, and that person will regret the day he or she ever joined the force.  This is a matter of supporting the brotherhood without fail and without question, and if you let Lieutenant Sloan down, I will personally see to it that the rest of your colleagues disown you.  Is that clear?"

For a moment, the room was silent.

"I said, is that clear?"

"SIR, YES, SIR!" the assembled cops responded almost in unison.

"Very good.  Dismissed.  Archer!  Banks!"

Tanis Archer and Cheryl Banks appeared at his side instantly.  "Sir?"

"Get four big men, and find Elaine Matthews.  Cuff her, no, full restraints, and bring her to my office.  And be careful.  She's a hell of a lot more dangerous than she looks."

"Yes, sir."

"Newman!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get a medic to clean me up."

"Yes, sir."

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1130 hours.)**

Mark sat in the administration office of Community General's psychiatric ward, watching his son on closed circuit television and worrying.  He'd been admitted the moment he arrived at the hospital, and, still in his straight jacket, had been taken directly to this observation room.  Steve had only just barely regained consciousness, and his only move in the past hour and a half had been to roll onto his side and curl up into the fetal position before going back off to sleep.

Since there was no predicting Steve's reaction if he came to, Mark had been advised against seeing him in person.  _Oh, God, Dr. Jeffries didn't say when, she said if.  The general consensus had been that after shooting, and as far as he knew, killing, the Chief of Police, having to then face his father while wearing a straight jacket in the psych ward could only do Steve more harm than good, so Mark was urged to keep his distance.  The worried father was so distressed and confused by all that had happened to his son in the past two days, that he easily acquiesced and now was sitting here, watching Steve sleep on a thirteen-inch black and white monitor._

Every fifteen minutes, a pair of attendants, one a burly male nurse, the other a large, powerful orderly, came in to check on Steve.  The orderly just stood guard while the nurse checked his temperature and his heart and respiration rates.  Using a thigh cuff, they would check his blood pressure as well.  The big men were kind and gentle with his son, but Mark still couldn't shake the idea that Steve was under guard and not just being monitored for his medical condition.

"You know, Mark," said Dr. Alice Jefferies as she entered the administration office to review the chart of another patient, "I'm sure Steve wouldn't mind a bit if you went home, or at least to your office, to get some rest."

Mark smiled, Steve might be her patient, but Mark knew Alice would do her best to look after him, too.  "I know, Alice," he said, "but I just need to be here, even if I can't be near him, I need to know how he is."

Alice peered over Mark's shoulder at the screen for a moment and said, "Sleeping.  That's my official diagnosis.  Now, go get some rest."

Mark shook his head.  "Maybe later, but not yet.  I need to stay here until he comes round.  I need to know . . . what the _hell_!"

As Mark watched on the monitor, two men in dark suits and dark glasses entered Steve's room with a gurney and gently lifted his unconscious form onto it.  They were definitely _not hospital personnel._

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1140 hours)**

Chief Masters examined the young woman who sat across from him like a bug under a microscope.  She still wore her office attire, a dark green skirt with a black leather belt, a matching green blazer, cream colored mock turtleneck shirt, and black pumps, but over the outfit, she wore brown leather and silver, in the form of full restraints, which spoiled the whole look.  The leather belt was cinched tight around her tiny waist, and chains coming off it attached to the handcuffs and leg irons, which restricted her movements considerably.  When he had asked the men who brought her in to further secure her to the chair in which she sat, he had answered their questioning looks by saying, "This woman has had training you don't even want to know about.  She could kill more men with her hands than you could with your service weapon, and in less time."  The men had done as he asked, then, and left without a word to wait in the hall.  Archer and Banks had taken positions beside the door and the window respectively. Elena looked so much like her mother, it almost made the Chief homesick for the old days.  Lucía had been a beautiful, treacherous woman, and the young John Masters had loved her both because of and in spite of herself.  A simple blood test when the baby was born had proved he was not the father of her child.  Still, until the results came back showing incompatible blood types, Jack, as he had called himself back then in the fashion of a young, dead president who had inspired him to what he believed were bold and noble acts on behalf of freedom and enlightenment, had allowed himself to hope she would leave Alejo to have a family with him.  A month after the baby's birth, Masters had left the service, and the day the child started school, Lucía had died in a mysterious car accident after dropping her off at her off at the playground to await the first bell.  Soon after his wife's death, Alejo had gone rogue, and instead of his country, he had started fighting for money.  

Shaking his head, deeply regretting the present consequences of his past indiscretions, LAPD Chief of Police John Masters pulled himself out of the mire of nostalgia and addressed the problem at hand.

"I still have friends in the game, Elena," Chief Masters told the apparently frightened young woman who sat before him.  Though she looked like her mother, she was her father's daughter through and through, and she was playing her role to the hilt.  What she didn't realize was that her cover was already blown, and the Chief now knew more about her operation than she did.

"I told you, Sir, my name is Elaine Matthews, and I am a civilian assistant to the LAPD," she said, twisting a paper tissue to shreds as she sat before him weeping crocodile tears.

"No, your name is Elena Mateo.  You are the daughter of Alejandro, a.k.a. Alejo, Mateo, a former Army Ranger, black ops mission commander, and colleague of mine.  You have your mother's eyes."

Those warm, almond shaped, honey brown eyes that the Chief had fought for and lost thirty years ago became frigid and smug as they stared at him from a younger face.  "Elena María Mateo," the woman said, "social security number 167-28-0592."

Masters grinned coldly and said, "Cut the crap, kid.  I know who you are.  I also know that your old man hired you to seduce my Lieutenant and deliver him for programming.  And I know your dad gave Ross Cainin a discount for the hit because Alejo hates me almost enough to kill me for free.  He should have done it himself years ago instead of waiting for a contract.  It's never a good idea to mix his kind of business with pleasure."

"Who's Ross Cainin?"  The girl batted her eyes coyly.

"Sweetheart, don't play dumb.  I _made_ Cainin.  You think I haven't been watching him all this time?"

"Ok, Chief, if you know everything, what do you want with me?"  The young woman was still highly confident.  

"I need the location of your father's lab.  The op was a complete bust.  Sloan didn't kill himself or me.  I know some people who might be able to deprogram him.  Having access to your father's records, the drugs, and facilities he used, will make it much easier."

"I see, and what do I get in return?"

The girl's attitude was really beginning to grate on the Chief's nerves, but he was about to enjoy knocking her down a notch or two.

"Give me what I want, and you get a twenty-four hour head start before this hits the presses," Masters said, handing her a photograph with a press release attached.

Masters began to grin as Elena's expression fell.  It was just damned good luck that she had been chosen civilian employee of the month for this station back in December.  The photo had been doctored to reflect her current hairstyle, and the background had been changed from the squad room to the Chief's office.  With the accompanying story, not even a savvy spy like Alejo Mateo could afford to doubt that she was accepting an award from Chief of Police Masters for her bravery in discovering the plot against his life.  She knew that if Ross Cainin didn't kill her, her own father would.

"Just to save you the reading," Masters said helpfully, "the article indicates that you took your concerns to your lover, Lieutenant Sloan.  The antidote you gave him before you left for the weekend was sufficient to protect him from the worst effects of your father's psychoactive drugs, and he was able to resist the programming.  The attempt on my life was a farce, meant to buy time while you led us to your father.  From there, we were hoping to follow him to Cainin to arrest them both at the moment money changed hands, but your father managed to give us the slip."

She looked to the Chief in horror and said, "You wouldn't publish this.  It's a lie."

Masters shrugged.  "By the time a retraction can be printed saying it was all a bad inside joke concerning Lieutenant Sloan's unfortunate love life, I figure you'll be dead, Cainin will be in jail, and your old man will be hiding out in South America somewhere."

Now Elena was truly frightened.  Her father had brought her into the game when she was very young, and she knew the rules.  She also knew her father, and whenever she was working for him, things were strictly business, and she was just an asset. "Even if you bury this story, Chief, if I tell you what you want to know, my dad will kill me."

"Alejo always was a bastard about that sort of thing," Masters said matter-of-factly.

Archer and Banks shared a wide-eyed, horrified glance across the room.

Clutching the papers that would be her death warrant if released to the press, Elena leaned forward and pleaded, "Can we deal?"

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1150 hours)**

"Who are you?" Mark demanded as he burst into Steve's room, "What are you doing with my son?"

One of the dark suited men gently restrained Mark while the other carefully covered Steve with a warm blanket and strapped him to the gurney.  "We're moving him to a facility that is better equipped to treat him," the man said.

"By who's authority?"

"I am sorry, Sir, I can't tell you that."

"Then you can't take him."

Sidestepping Mark, the man in the suit turned to Alice and said, "Dr. Jefferies, you are Lieutenant Sloan's doctor of record at the moment, is that correct?"

"Yes, I am, and, like Dr. Sloan, I would also like to know who you think you are and what you are doing moving my patient."

"This warrant explains everything," the young man said, and handed Alice a very official looking envelope.

As Alice read the document concerning Steve's transfer, Mark tried to prevent the men from preparing Steve for transport.

"Mark, wait," Alice said, "this is a federal court order, issued about an hour ago, for Steve."

"What?  He's in no condition to be moved!  Besides, Chief Masters said he wouldn't be pressing charges."

"They're not holding him on charges, Mark.  They're holding him as _evidence_."

"The chemicals that were found in your son's blood are drugs developed by the United States government to assist in the collection of information vital to national security," said the man who had handed Alice the warrant.  "Until they have dissipated from his system, he will be held in a secure government facility."

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1200 hours)**

Chief Masters nodded and smiled.  "Thank you Elena.  That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

The girl spat at him and swore.  He wiped the spittle from his face, and smiled again.  "Your manners are atrocious," he said.  "Your mother would be appalled."  Then he picked up the phone and dialed.  When the person at the other end answered, he fixed the girl with an icy stare and said, "Run the story."

"You son of a bitch!" Elena screamed at him, lunging forward out of the chair to fall on her face as Detectives Banks and Archer looked on in horror.  "I'm dead now!" she ranted as she writhed on the carpet.  "Do you realize that?  You've killed me!"

With unnatural calm, the Chief came out from behind his desk, stepped over Elena, nimbly avoiding her thrashing body, looked out into the hall, and asked the officers who had delivered Elena to take her away to the county jail.  " . . . and see to it that she has a cell to herself, for her own protection."

As Elena, still spitting and struggling like an angry cat, was led away, Masters turned to Banks and Archer and asked mildly, "Detectives?  Is there a problem?"

"Sir, that  . . . that story," Tanis sputtered.

"What about it?"

"From what she said, Sir, if the papers run it, Cainin will kill her if her father doesn't."

"You think so?"

Sergeant Banks, who did not like the Chief any more than Lieutenant Sloan did, was less circumspect with her words.  "She gave you everything you wanted, Chief, releasing that story isn't just cruel, it's criminal."

The Chief looked befuddled for a moment, then he smiled as if an idea had just struck him.  "Detectives," he said, "the two of you must be confused.  That story about Elena was just meant to rattle her cage.  It was a gamble that paid off for us.  I was just releasing a story about the gunshots fired here at the precinct today."  

Masters grinned broadly,  "It seems a defective weapon discharged by accident, startling the officer who was holding it.  He dropped it onto his desk where it fired again on impact.  The recoil made it fall to a nearby chair where it fired again, and then it fell to the floor where it discharged one last time.  Miraculously, no one was injured.  The officer will be unnamed because the department sees no reason to hold the individual up to public ridicule when the incident was really the fault of the manufacturer.  All department issued service weapons will be checked for the fault, and a few of them will be repaired or replaced."

As Tanis watched in shock, Cheryl faced off against the Chief.  Feet planted and arms folded across her chest, she asked,  "Why let her believe it was the story about her, then?  What you have done is unconscionable.  She is truly in fear for her life."

"After what she did to your partner, Sergeant, I would think you might want to kill her by inches, painfully, over the course of days," the Chief said, staring his detective down.  "A little terror, a little pay back, will not harm her, and it's the least of what she deserves."

Masters waited a moment more, but Banks didn't blink.  He'd never say so publicly, but he admired and valued her backbone as much as he appreciated Archer's tenacious loyalty.  Finally willing to concede a draw, he said, without ever breaking eye contact with Banks, "I have already arranged for the Lieutenant's transfer to Mateo's facility.  I need to make some calls so that the people moving him know how to get there.  I want you two to split up.  One of you go to Dr. Sloan's place, and the other to Dr. Travis' home.  Wait for them there.  After they have had time to pack a bag, take them to the facility.  Also, get Dr. Bentley after she has arranged for childcare.  They are all going to need each other.  Make sure you are not followed."

"Yes, Sir," Archer said, and moved out the door immediately.  Banks held his gaze a moment longer, then said, "Yes, Sir," and she turned her back on him and left.

When Banks was gone, Masters laughed slightly, appreciating the woman's spunk, then took out his cell phone and dialed a number that would never show up on his calling records.

"You shouldn't challenge the Chief like that," Archer said as Banks caught up to her in the hall, "he doesn't like it."

"I really don't care what he likes," Banks said.  "I don't like the way he operates.  He's too much politician and not enough cop.  He's shady and deceitful, and this is the second time Steve has suffered the consequences of his despicable actions."

Archer stopped in mid stride, and Banks turned to face her as she spoke.  "Do you really think he doesn't realize that?"

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Cheryl said, "but I'm not convinced he gives a damn."

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1210 hours)**

"We're trying, Sir, but Dr. Sloan is being . . . difficult," Agent Wells said into his cell phone.  "He lifted my handcuffs and cuffed himself to Agent Long . . . We tried, Sir, but he snatched the key, too, when we went to unlock the cuffs, and we think he swallowed it . . . No, Sir, nobody here will administer the necessary, uh, medication . . . Yes, Sir.  Just a moment, Sir."

Mark accepted the phone, and he heard a familiar voice say, "Dr. Sloan, do you know who this is?"

"I think so," Mark replied, "but with everything going on, I want you to tell me something only you would know so I can be sure."

Mark heard a sigh and then the voice said, "I promised to buy your son the best steak dinner in town when he closed a case for me.  I was paying up when he was shot."

Mark thought a moment, then shook his head.  "Not good enough.  There were too many people there."

After a pause, the voice said in a disgusted tone, "He made me back down once, when I insisted he join my task force permanently.  Said he didn't like the way I worked.  I decided he was needed on the force, so I let him stay in homicide."

Mark was sure now that he was talking to the Chief, so he said, "What do you want?"

"We now know where Steve was . . . kept . . . for the weekend," Masters explained, "and the person who did this cleared out in a hurry, leaving behind most of his equipment.  A friend of mine who can help is on the way.  I want you to let Wells and Long take him there, and I want you to go home and pack a bag.  I will be contacting Dr. Travis and Dr. Bentley to ask them to do the same.  Detectives Archer and Banks will meet you at your homes to take you there.  I will contact the hospital administration to make arrangements to cover your shifts."

"And how can I be sure the men who are here are the ones you sent and not a couple of people who have been hired to take my son from me again?"

"Dr. Sloan, you are wasting time!"

"I will not send my son off with just anyone.  How do I know I can trust them?" 

Mark heard a deep sigh, and the Chief said, "Long has a scar on his left bicep where a bullet went through the arm.  There are also scars from surgery to repair the broken bone.  Wells' right eye is green on the nose side and brown on the ear side."

"Look at me," Mark commanded Agent Wells.

After examining the young man's eyes, he nodded and handed him back his phone.  "Talk to your boss."

"Show me your left arm," he ordered Long as Wells got instructions from the Chief.  When he saw the scars, just as the Chief had described, Mark reached into the pocket of Long's sports coat and produced the handcuff keys.  "I am an amateur magician," he explained to the dumbfounded young man.  "A little sleight of hand, and you never thought to search yourselves.  What about the warrant?"

"It was a forgery, an excuse to move him in case the hospital staff tried to interfere.  I guess there's no accounting for a desperately worried father."

"You're right about that," Mark said.  Turning to Dr. Jeffries, Mark said, "Alice, I can't tell you about this.  I don't understand it well enough to explain even if I were at liberty to discuss it.  These men need to take Steve, and they need to do it now.  They have access to facilities and people that we don't, and they can help him.  We can't.  Do you understand?"

Alice nodded slightly, what Mark had said made no sense at all to her, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.  "I understand just enough to know that I don't _want_ to know any more."  She looked to the young men who were about to take her patient from her.  "Are you taking him to the ambulance bay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ok, Mark," she said, turning to her colleague, "go down there with him.  I'll bring the discharge papers to you there."

Mark gave her a quick, grateful kiss on the cheek and hustled after the fast-moving gurney.  "Thank you, Alice," he called as he scrambled down the hall.


	7. Breakthrough

**Chapter 7: Breakthrough**

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1320 hours.)**

"I'm not sure I can do this," Jesse said, looking nervously from his father to Cinnamon Carter as Dr. Lewis and one of the techs finished setting up the monitoring equipment.  Jesse had been called upon to help deprogram Steve, and he was terrified at the prospect of failure.  If things went badly, not only would he lose his best friend, but he was also sure Mark would never forgive him.

"You have to, honey," Cinnamon said, "We need someone Steve can trust or this will never work."

"Then Mark should be here," Jesse insisted, "Steve trusts him more than anyone on earth."

"No, Son.  Mark can't do this," Dane Travis told his son.  

"Why not?  I don't understand."

Dane turned to look through the observation window at the man floating in the plastic tank, and Jesse and Cinnamon turned with him.  While he was still unconscious, Steve had been stripped and placed in the tub of blood warm water.  A light harness held his head up, and long, soft straps kept his hands and feet tethered just below the surface.  He was practically weightless, and totally helpless.  The warm water forced his body to relax, despite the fear he would undoubtedly feel.  The drugs needed to break through the chemical memory blocks Mateo had established would be delivered through a series of effervescent tablets that would dissolve in the water, their active ingredients being absorbed through the skin.  Sensors placed in the water circulation and heating system would monitor the drug levels in the tank and tell them when to administer the next dose.

Dane shivered.  He didn't know about Steve, but for him, the most terrifying aspect of being in the tank would probably have been finding himself so completely at the mercy of another man.  He turned to face his son again.

"Jesse, if that were you, I would be a wreck," Dane confessed.  "Mark Sloan doesn't love his son any more than I love you, but he and Steve are closer than you and I have ever been.  Seeing his son like this, watching him suffer through the trials he will have to face, standing back and making Steve work through things on his own, it would destroy Mark.  We know Steve trusts you, we're hoping you can maintain the professional distance necessary to get him through this without making him dependent on you."

"What if I screw up, Dad?"

"You couldn't possibly make things worse for him, son," Dane said gently, "and Cinnamon and I won't let you fail."

"Dr. Lewis is an expert at this sort of thing, Jesse," Cinnamon said.  "She helped develop some of these methods, but she doesn't know Steve like you do.  She can help with the psychology and the drugs, but it is your instincts, your knowledge of the patient, and his trust in you that will get him through this."

Jesse had some serious reservations about collaborating with the woman who had invented the procedures that had allowed some mercenary to take over his friend's mind, but he knew now was not the time to voice them.  He watched Dr. Lewis for a moment.  She was all business, which Jesse supposed was the way to be in her line of work.  Humanity and compassion would certainly be a hindrance when your job was to systematically disintegrate a man's psyche and then reconstruct it from the ground up. 

Walking over to her, he asked, "Can he really get better, I mean all better?"

"Absolutely," Dr. Lewis said flatly as she turned to face him.  Her jet-black hair was all scraped up into a severe bun on the top of her head.  It was pulled back so tightly, her eyes, peering over the tops of her horn-rimmed spectacles, looked permanently surprised.  Pencil thin eyebrows and sparse eyelashes framed cold gray eyes, and her lipstick seemed bloody red against skin so white it was almost translucent.  He nails were short and well manicured, painted red to match the lipstick.  She wore a pristine white lab coat over trousers and a turtleneck sweater so dark they seemed to swallow the light.

"It will take a long time, and lot of work," she said in the same monotone, "and it will be hard on you and harder on him, but working together, you and he can undo all the damage that has been done."

"O-Ok, I'll do my best."

Dr. Lewis smiled coldly, and, through a microphone told a tech in another room, "Administer the first dose."  Turning to Jesse, she said, "There are some important things you have to remember."

After a moment, Jesse prompted her, "So, what are they?"

"No matter how agitated he gets, you have to remain calm."

"Ok."

"Don't give him any information," the doctor said.  "Don't even confirm or deny anything unless I tell you to do so.  That is vitally important."

"Why?"

"With the drugs we're giving him, anything you tell him will become his reality, even if it's true, it will be a false memory.  It will be something you planted there, and not something he really knows."

"But, if I tell him the truth, does that really matter?"

"Yes," Dr. Lewis insisted, "the only way to break through the blocks Mateo created is for Steve to remember things for himself.  If you tell him what you think he needs to know, you're just laying one layer of false memories atop another.  He might know the same information, but he will never retrieve the emotions and experiences that went with it.  He will never be able to deal with them.  Also, there might be other memories attached to the ones we are trying to get him to recall, and if you bury them under false recollections, they will never come back.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  Is that all?"

"Not quite.  Never let him off the hook for anything," for once, the woman's voice inflection changed.  It became colder and harder and gave Jesse a chill.  "Make him do everything you say, and make sure he answers all your questions.  Never, ever skip over something, planning to come back to it later."

"Isn't that a little harsh?"

"Yes, but it's absolutely necessary.  Unfortunately, all of us have to remember the good with the bad in order to be whole."  Surprisingly, her voice held a little compassion.  Then, suddenly, it was all business again.  "Also, Mateo may have implanted a secondary mission as a fail safe, and if he ever gets the idea that he can duck the tough issues, he may be able to hide the programming from us."

"Ok."  Jesse moved toward his chair, but Dr. Lewis put a gentle hand on his arm.

"One last thing.  Don't tell him who you are."

"What?" Jesse shouted in surprise.  "I thought the whole reason I was doing this was that he trusted me."

"It is, but just like the memories, he has to figure that out for himself.  With the drugs we are using, Darth Vader and the Borg Queen could take turns calling themselves by your name, and your friend would believe them both and do everything they said."

At Jesse's horrified look, Dr. Lewis said, "He is just that vulnerable, Dr. Travis, and on some level he knows it.  This is just the beginning, and all of his work with you has to be built on trust.  He will fight you and fear you at first.  He will try to ignore you, and then beg for your attention.  He may learn to trust you before he knows who you are, or he may remember you and then know he can trust you.  Either way, he has to make the call himself.  In order to really trust you, he has to figure out on his own who you are.  When he finally, truly knows you, things will be a lot easier for you both.  Until then, you will have to remain detached and demanding, got it?"

Jesse nodded, realizing she had said 'trust' four times, and knew that was the only reason there was any hope at all for his friend.  He blinked back the tears that were stinging his eyes.  "Yes.  I understand.  This is going to be very difficult."

"Yes, it is," Dr. Lewis agreed with just a hint of sympathy, "but you will be able to do it, because you love your friend and truly want to help."

Jesse smiled slightly, then, took his seat and slipped on a headset microphone so he could hear and speak to his friend.  Within moments, Steve began to splash feebly in the water.

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1330 hours.)**

Steve drifted slowly awake.  At first, he felt warm and comfortable, and unusually light, and very safe.  Then he realized he was back in the Water, and he could hear the Thudding of his heart and the _Shushhhhing of his breath. The whole room was dark, except for the light over the tub.  It made him feel tremendously vulnerable and exposed.  _

Steve began to weep again.  As frightened as he was, he knew it would do no good to fight.  There was no escape.  What he had always thought was his real life had been nothing but a dream.  His real world had been just the Water and the Voice and the Face and the Pain and the horrible noises.  His dad and his friends, Jesse and Amanda, the beach house and the hospital, had all been an elaborate fantasy.  The Voice had told him that once, and he now knew it was true, because he had killed the man with the Face in his dream world, just like the Voice had told him to, and he was still here.  He had even killed himself in his dream, just to be sure it was over, and it had not worked.  He was still here, in the Water, waiting for the bad pictures and the Voice and the Face and the Pain.  The Thudding and the _Shushhhhing_ grew louder.

"Steve?" The Voice said tentatively.

"Nooooo," he whined.

"Steve, can you hear me?" the Voice asked.

"I hear you," he said.  "Go away."

"I can't do that, Steve.  I won't do that.  I won't leave you alone."

"Then kill me!" Steve suddenly screamed.  

"Steve!" the Voice shouted back, surprised.

Steve realized instantly that this was the first time the Voice had shown any shock or surprise.  It was the first time he had ever, in his whole life, been able to affect it, and, even as the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing _grew louder, he instinctively pressed his advantage.  

"Kill me and end this!" he demanded, and began to fight against the cords that bound him beneath the Water.  "I can't take any more.  It's too much.  I want to die!" he screamed.

"Steve!" The Voice yelled back, worried, "You don't mean that!"

"I do," Steve insisted, "I really do!"  He fought harder at his bonds, and the Water splashed in his face, making him cough, disrupting the _Shushhhhing_.  He could feel the Thudding in his bones as the water vibrated all around him.  "I want to die now.  Please, please, kill me!"

"Steve," the Voice called back, and Steve was sure he heard tears in it.  "I can't do that.  I could never do that.  I could never, ever hurt you."

"Yes, you can," Steve sobbed, and stopped struggling with his bonds.  "You can do anything you want to me.  You always have.  Please, kill me.  Kill me and find someone else.  Please!"

Tears streaming down his face, Jesse swallowed a sob as he watched his best friend stop fighting and hang limply in the water, pleading for an end to his life.  He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to reply, but a hand suddenly covered his microphone and his headset was removed.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded as he turned on Dr. Lewis.

"Stopping you from doing more damage," she said coolly.  

"What do you mean?"

"You cannot react to him, no matter what he says or does, you cannot react emotionally."  The woman spoke in an absolute monotone.  There was no rise and fall of pitch, no change of volume.  Every word came out the same.

"Why the hell not?  He's my best friend, and he's begging me to kill him."

"Jesse," Dane Travis called his son's name softly, and Jesse turned to face him.  "That man is not your friend right now.  He is your patient.  He's just some guy who has been psychologically disassembled by some sick bastard who wanted to use him, and now, he is counting on you to put him back together."

"But how do I _do_ that?" Jesse pleaded, desperate to help, but not knowing where to begin.

"You start by remaining calm," Dr. Lewis said.  "No matter what, you remain calm."

"How do I do that?  The man is my friend."

"The man is a train wreck," Dr. Lewis corrected him.  "He is just another patient who desperately needs your help.  You need to be his anchor as he drifts amid the false memories and the very real remembered terrors that he suffered through.  You will be his solid ground as the façade Mateo created crumbles around him, and you will help build the foundation as he reconstructs his true identity."

"How?" Jesse demanded urgently, aware that Steve was becoming more frantic with each passing moment.  "How can I do and be all of that for him?  What do I do?  Where do I start?"

If anything, Dr. Lewis' became even more expressionless.  "Take a deep breath.  Calm yourself.  Forget he's a friend.  Forget that you care.  Then, make him calm down, too."

Jesse breathed deeply for several moments, trying to relax, trying to center himself, trying not to think of how frightened his friend was.  Finally, he found a cold, calm space in his mind, and he put the headset back on.

Until the Voice left him, Steve could not imagine being more frightened than he already was, but when he found himself alone in the Water, he grew absolutely frantic.  Each Thud became a jolt that coursed through his body, almost as powerful as the Pain, jarring him.  The noise of the _Shushhhhing drowned his thoughts, heightening his confusion and fear.  The Voice had never left him alone before, and while he hated to hear it all the time, being without it was infinitely worse._

"Wait!" he screamed.  "Don't leave me!  Please, kill me if you must go, but don't leave me alone!  I'm afraid to be all alone.  Please, don't go."

"Noooooo!" Jesse heard his patient wail out on a sob as he replaced his headset, and bracing himself against his own inner turmoil, he forced himself to respond calmly.

"Steve?"

"You're back.  Oh, thank you for coming back," Steve babbled gratefully.  "Why did you leave?  Where did you go?  Please don't leave me alone again.  I was afraid.  I don't like being alone in the Water."

Ignoring his friend's pleading, Jesse replied in a toneless voice.  "I didn't leave.  I didn't go anywhere.  I just couldn't talk to you.  I told you I wouldn't leave you, and I meant that.  You don't have to be afraid, Steve, I won't let anything happen to you."

"Promise?" Steve whimpered.

In the observation room, Jesse wiped a hand across his eyes and said, "I promise."

"Ok."

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Steve," the Voice said.  "I want you to look at some pictures for me."

"NO!  NO PICTURES!  I HATE THE PICTURES!"

Dr. Lewis slipped Jesse a note.  _Ignore him._

"THE BAD PICTURES ALWAYS COME!"

Another note slid in front of Jesse before he could question the first one.  _Do not engage in conversation.  Do not try to reason._  

"THEN I SEE THE FACE!"

A new sheet said, _He is beyond reasoning right now._

"THEN THE PAIN COMES!"

Jesse covered the microphone for a moment and whispered harshly, "What the hell _do I do, then?"_

He pulled one earpiece away and listened as Dr. Lewis told him, "Show him the first picture.  Continue talking calmly.  Tell him what you want him to do.  Repeat it as many times as necessary until he calms down and cooperates."

Jesse nodded and pressed the button that brought up the first picture.

"Look at this picture, Steve," the Voice commanded calmly.

"NOOOOOOO!" Steve wailed as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"Tell me what is happening in this picture."

"I WON'T LOOK!"

Jesse forced himself to remain calm in the face of his friend's hysteria.

"Look at it, and tell me what's happening, Steve."

"I WON'T!"

"You must."

"NO!"

"Yes!"

"NO!"

"The picture isn't going away until you look at it and tell me about it."

"Why?"

Remembering Dr. Lewis' advice, Jesse ignored the question and just said, "Look at the picture, Steve, and tell me what's happening."

"I DON'T WANT TO!"

**(Tuesday, 08 July, 2003.  1730 hours.)**

"Tell me about this picture, Steve."  After half an hour of screaming, sobbing, begging, and refusing to cooperate, Steve had finally given in and looked at the first picture.  Between sobs and hiccups, he had described a day spent on the beach with his mother and sister shortly after the Sloan family had moved to the beach house.  They had been building sand castles, and Steve had anxiously awaited his father's return so that they could show him the fruits of their labor.  Unfortunately, one of Mark's patients had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and he hadn't made it home before the high tide had washed it away.

After describing the picture, Steve had then refused to say whether the scene was real or his imagination.  With Dr. Lewis' help, Jesse had finally got him to accept that just because the Water and the things that had happened to him there were real didn't mean that things that had happened in the other world had to be imaginary.  Once he understood that the memories of events in the other world could be real, he became much more cooperative.

They had been working for four solid hours now, and Dr. Lewis was determined that they would continue until Steve remembered Jesse or passed out from fatigue.  They had started from the earliest pictures and worked chronologically to the most recent ones.  They were just now getting to the pictures of events Jesse had been a part of.  Up to this point, all of Steve's responses, minus the weeping and pleas to end his misery, had been transcribed for Mark and Amanda.  So far, it seemed they were batting a thousand.  All of Steve's explanations had matched the pictures precisely, and despite the fact that his friend had yet to recognize his voice, Jesse was feeling hopeful that Steve would indeed recover completely.

"Jesse," Dr. Lewis said, "he hasn't answered you."

"Huh?"

"Make him answer you, Jesse."

It took Jesse a moment to realize Dr. Lewis had told him Steve hadn't replied.  When her words finally filtered through, he smiled slightly.  He hadn't noticed Steve's prolonged silence because he was tired himself, so he could only imagine how weary Steve must be.  Dr. Lewis was a slave driver, but she had remained the consummate professional, and as the day wore on, whenever Jesse became discouraged or upset, she had been there with an encouraging word or a supportive squeeze on the arm.  Cinnamon Carter and Dane Travis had remained in the background, but Dr. Lewis had been right there beside him the entire time.

"Ask him again," she said.

Jesse nodded at Dr. Lewis.  Through the course of this difficult day, he had come to realize that she really did care about helping Steve.  "Tell me about this picture, Steve." 

"It was Christmas, a few years ago.  We were all singing, Carol and Dad and me and Norman.  Norman took the picture."  Steve fell silent for a long moment, then he added, "Jesse and Amanda are there, too, all my friends and family.  CJ was just a baby."

"And what happened, Steve?"

"My sister came home," Steve said, a bit grumpy.  "I got hurt.  A lot of other things happened then, too, but we were happy here."

"Ask him what other things," Dr. Lewis prompted.

"What other things happened, Steve?"

"I-I don't want to talk about them."  

There was a brief war of silence while Steve refused to speak further and the Voice refused to go on.  There was something terribly familiar about the Voice, and Steve had been trying for a while to work out what it was, but the constant pictures and questions had kept his mind so muddled he hadn't had time to think.  He remembered very well what had happened that time when Carol had come to visit, but he didn't want to think about that.  He wanted to think about the Voice.

He concentrated hard on the picture before him and tried to remember everything about that day.  It had been an uncommonly happy time for all of them.  He and Carol were on good terms, at least for the moment.  It was CJ's first Christmas.  Jesse had spent Christmas Day with them at the beach house, running up Steve's pay-per-view bill.  Even Norman had been cheerful.

"Jesse?" Steve called out tentatively, and the Thudding began to race, "Jesse, is that you?"

Jesse looked on in surprise.  After all this time, out of nowhere, Steve suddenly knew him.  Jesse was poised to reply when Dr. Lewis covered his microphone again.  

"Do not confirm or deny," she commanded.  "For it to be real, he has to decide for himself.  He has to believe it for himself.  Make him figure it out."

"Dammit, answer me!" Steve yelled when the Voice was silent too long.  "Are you Jesse Travis or not?"

Though he was dying to just yell, 'Yes!  Yes I am!  Thank God you remember.  Welcome back,' Jesse managed instead to follow the doctor's instructions.

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Jesse, why are you doing this to me?"  Steve was suddenly furious and frantic.  He began fighting his bonds again, struggling to get out of the tank and find his friend for an explanation.

"What makes you think I'm Jesse?" the Voice asked calmly.

"You sound just like him.  You are Jesse, aren't you?" Steve replied as he tugged hard on the tethers holding his hands below water.

Jesse looked pleadingly at Dr. Lewis, who shook her head.  "Not yet," she said.  "Make him figure it out on his own, so he knows it's true."

"Voices can be faked, Steve," the Voice said.

"I know," Steve admitted, "but not this time.  Why are you doing this to me, Jesse?"

"Ask him why he thinks it's you again," Dr. Lewis suggested, "Make him understand and explain why he believes you're here."

"Why do you think I'm Jesse, Steve?" the Voice asked.

"Oh, stop playing these stupid games, Jess!" Steve began sobbing miserably as he once again confronted the reality that there was no escape from his current situation.  The Thuddinggrew louder, and each time he gathered himself for another loud wail, the _Shushhhhing roared like a hurricane and Steve realized again that he was completely dependent on someone else and could not help himself.  "Get me out of here.  __Please!"_

Jesse was on the verge of tears at the sight of his friend's distress, but he at least managed to sound cool and detached.

"Steve, tell me why you think I am Jesse," the Voice droned.

"Because you're kind and patient.  The other Voice was mean, and it hurt me.  You haven't hurt me."

"And?" Jesse knew his friend well enough that Steve was holding back.  There was more to say.  

"Every time you say my name, I can tell you care about me," Steve tearfully replied.  "The other Voice didn't care about me.  Oh, Jesse, what happened to me?  Why are you doing this to me?  Did I do something wrong?"

When Jesse turned to Dr. Lewis for guidance, he was so choked with emotion he couldn't form the words required to ask what to do next, but Dr. Lewis had been watching the exchange carefully, and was prepared.  A flurry of notes came to Jesse.

"Jesse?"  Steve called into the darkness.  "Jesse, where are you?  Please, help me, Jess."

The first note said simply, _Calm down.  Jesse closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and when he felt he was back in control, he opened his eyes and nodded._

_Reassure him that he has done nothing wrong and that you will not leave him_, said the second note.

"JESSE!!!"  He had to shout to be heard above the Thudding and the _Shushhhhing._

"Steve?  Steve, listen to me," Jesse's voice came to him softly from the darkness.

"Oh, my God, Jesse, you're still here," Steve was plainly relieved.  "Please don't leave again.  What have I done?  Why won't you help me?"

"You have done nothing wrong, Steve," Jesse spoke smoothly over his friend's distraught babble, repeating his name often to force him to pay attention.  "Do you hear me, Steve?  You have done nothing wrong.  Steve, do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, I understand.  Jesse, where are you?"  As Steve looked around him, peering into the darkness, the Thudding gradually slowed.  "Please don't leave me all by myself."

"I won't leave you, Steve.  I will stay right here.  I promise."  Jesse looked at the next note as he spoke.

_Tell him something happened to him this weekend and that you are going to help him remember what happened, no more, no less._

"Jesse, please, please get me out of here.  Help me, Jess."

"I will, Steve," Jesse's voice assured him.  "Something happened to you this weekend, Steve . . ."

"What?  What happened?" Steve asked worriedly.

"I can't tell you, Steve, but I will help you."  Jesse was so calm.

"I don't remember," Steve said, confused.

"I know, Steve.  You have forgotten important parts of what happened.  I'm here to help you, buddy.  I promise I will help you remember.  You just have to be patient, ok?"

"I remember this place, Jess.  I remember the other Voice, and the Face and the Pain, and the noise.  I remember the Water, Jess," Steve was growing frightened again, and the Thudding and _Shushhhhing increased.  "I hate the Water, Jess.  Can you please just get me out of the Water?"_

Jesse looked to Dr. Lewis who adamantly shook her head no.

"I-I can't do that just yet, Steve, I'm sorry."

"Oh, God, Jess, _please_!" Steve begged, and the Thudding shook the room.  "You don't know what it's like.  Please, Jess.  _Please, get me out of here."_

As he had done before when Steve refused to look at the pictures, Jesse just continued speaking softly and insistently until Steve calmed down enough to listen.  It took nearly ten minutes.

"Steve, can you hear me?"

"Yes," came the soft reply.  Steve was hoarse from all the screaming and yelling and crying he had done.

"Good."  Jesse tried to sound cheerful but his heart was breaking for his friend.  "There are just three things you need to know right now, ok, buddy?"

"Ok."

"First, you are safe here, and no one is going to hurt you.  Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Second, you have done _nothing wrong.  You were the victim in all this, and nobody plans to punish you for anything."_

"Then _why_ am I back _here?_"

"Steve, you have done nothing wrong," Jesse refused to answer his question.  "Do you understand that?"__

"Yes, but then why is this happening to me again?"

"Well, that is the third thing you need to know, Steve.  You have forgotten some important things.  This will help you remember.  I will help you remember.  I will be here with you as long as you need me.  Do you understand?"

"You won't go away?"

"No, Steve, I won't go away."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Ok, Jesse, I trust you."

Jesse breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be through with the ordeal, but Dr. Lewis slipped him another note.  _Ask him about the picture again.  What other things happened?_

Covering his microphone, Jesse said sharply, "He needs a break!"

"Not yet, Doctor," she said coolly.  "Remember, never let him off the hook.  Make him answer all your questions.  Make him face everything.  It's the only way he'll ever get it all back."

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Jesse took another deep calming breath.  Then he looked down at his friend and spoke softly.

"Steve?"

"Jess?  You're still there?  You were so quiet for a while, I thought you might have left."

"No, Steve, I didn't leave.  I promised you I'd stay here, and I meant it.  I won't leave you alone.  I'll stay with you until you're through this, ok?"

"Ok."

"Now, I want you to look at the picture again.  You told me all about it once, but you also mentioned other things that had happened.  Tell me about those other things."

"I don't want to.  You were there.  You remember," Steve said petulantly.  "I'm tired.  I want to rest."

"I know, Steve, I'm tired, too, and I was there, and I do remember.  I just need to know what _you_ remember."

Steve sulked and fussed for a few minutes, but finally, he gave in and told them all about how Carol's truck driver husband had died for blackmailing some of his coworkers who were illegally dumping toxic waste.  Steve explained all the difficulties that had developed from his late brother-in-law's greedy actions, and even lectured Jesse again about the hazards of undertaking police investigations without the proper training.

As Steve recounted the events of Carol's last visit home, Dr. Lewis told Jesse, "Wrap it up.  This is good for today.  I am surprised we made such an important breakthrough so early."  She looked at Jesse with her soft gray eyes, and said, "That speaks volumes about your friendship.  Tell him he can rest.  We're going to put something in the water to make him sleep, and he will wake up in a bed."

"Ok, Steve, that's good," Jesse said as Steve finished up, "It's time for a break.  There's going to be a drug in the water soon to help you sleep.  When you wake up, you'll be in a bed."

Jesse heard a deep sigh of relief from his friend, and then Steve said tremulously, "Will I have to go back in the Water?"  The Thudding increased slightly again.

Jesse looked hopefully to Dr. Lewis who smiled and shook her head no.

"No, buddy, you won't.  That part's over now."

Jesse heard a deep shaky breath, and then, as Steve struggled for control, he heard him say, "Oh, good."


	8. More Nightmares

**OOOPS!!!  I forgot to include 'The Last Resort' in my list of spoilers at the beginning of this story.  The whole solution to the mystery of that episode is summarized in this chapter.  Sorry!**

**Chapter 8:  More Nightmares **

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0800 hours.)**

Steve did not so much wake up as drift back into the world.  One moment, he was dozing lightly, aware of the beat of his own heart and the sound of his own breathing, and the next, he was staring at the barren white ceiling, with no recollection of having opened his eyes.  It was as if his eyelids had slowly become transparent, and he might have almost believed that to be the case, except that things went dark when he blinked.

He was resting comfortably, and wearing his favorite soft, blue flannel pajamas.  A thin white cotton blanket covered him right up to the chin, and there was a soft pillow under his head.  He couldn't remember the last time he had woken up with the feeling of having slept so well.

He knew he was in a hospital or something like it, judging by the stark white walls and the feel of the bed beneath him, but he could tell from the ceiling that it wasn't Community General.  In the jumble of weird memories that tormented him, he couldn't recall anything that had happened that would require medical treatment.  He turned his head to look around, and was puzzled to find that there was no furniture, no windows or pictures, not even a door as far as he could see.  The lights were fluorescent tubes, their cover set flush in the ceiling, but he couldn't find a switch to turn them off and on.  The only breaks in the absolute whiteness of the room were himself, his pajamas, the IV bag on the chrome stand that snaked a tube down and under the blanket, and the dark shadows in the air vent set high in the wall at the other end of the room.

He yawned and tried to stretch, and suddenly, he panicked.  Twisting and writhing beneath the covers, he struggled to free himself from the restraints he had just discovered.  As he thrashed and fought without success, memories started floating back, snatches of darkness and light, pain and noise, and a warm, weakening wetness, and a Voice, no two Voices, one bringing pain and fear, the other making him feel safe.  Finally, he called out for help.

"JESSE!"

"I'm here, Steve," his friend's reassuring voice came to him seemingly from all sides.

"Oh, God, Jess, why am I in restraints?  Did I do something wrong?  Jesse please, please come let me loose."  He could feel his heart pounding and hear the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but thankfully, whatever had amplified the sounds before was gone.  Still, it did little to ameliorate the panic.  "Jess, you promised you wouldn't leave me.  Why am I here?  Please, come let me loose."

"Listen to me, Steve, I want you to take deep breaths."

"Jesse, PLEASE!"

"Deep slow breaths, Steve."  Jesse continued in the same singsong he used for his frightened pediatric patients until Steve finally obeyed.  "You didn't do anything wrong, Steve," he assured his friend, "we were just concerned that, because of the drugs you are being given, you might have become a danger to yourself.  They have some pretty weird side effects."

"Jesse, can you come in and let me loose?"

"Soon, Steve, very soon.  First, can you tell me how you feel?"

"I felt good when I woke up, like I'd had enough sleep for the first time in ages.  Then I realized I was tied down, and I got scared.  Now, I'm tired."  There was a short pause, and Steve added, "And hungry."

"We'll get you some breakfast soon," Jesse said, and Steve felt just a tiny bit better to hear the warmth and amusement in his friend's voice.  "Now, Steve, you remembered that I said I wouldn't leave you.  Do you remember when that was?"

"I . . . I'm not sure.  I guess it was yesterday.  I don't know how long I was out, so I'm not sure."

"It was yesterday," Jesse confirmed.  "What else do you remember from yesterday?"

"I woke up, and I was in the Water again.  I was scared, but you left me there anyway, and you made me look at pictures.  Why did you do that to me, Jesse?"

"I was trying to help you get your memory back.  Was it any different from the first time you were in the water?"

"Why can't I see you Jesse?"

"I'm speaking to you through an intercom, Steve.  I'm in another room, but I can see you.  Was yesterday any different from the first time you were in the water?"

"Where are the speaker and the camera?  How can you see me?"

"That doesn't matter, Steve.  Please answer my question.  Was yesterday any different from the first time you were in the water?"

Steve sighed.  "There weren't any bad pictures, I didn't see the Face, and there wasn't any Pain."

"What do you mean, the Face, Steve?"

"Jesse, can you please come undo the restraints?"

"Once you have answered all of my questions.  What do you mean when you say the Face, Steve?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"You have to.  What is the Face, Steve?"

There was another big sigh, and Steve explained, "Whenever I saw the bad pictures, I would feel the Pain, and then see the Face.  The Voice, the other Voice, not you Jesse, would tell me it was his fault."

"Who was the Face?"

"A man.  He looked mean.  He caused the Pain."

"Are you sure?"

"That's what the Voice told me."

"Did you believe it?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . I guess."  Steve began to tear up, but he had no idea why.  He just really didn't like to talk about the Voice and the Face and the Pain.  "Jesse, I'm hungry, and I don't like being restrained.  Please let me go."

"Not just yet, Steve.  I'm sorry.  Why did you believe the Voice, Steve?"

"Because it was so real.  It was everywhere.  It was more real than the memories, the pictures.  It was everything, Jess, or at least it felt like it."

"What about now, Steve?  Is the Voice real now?"

"I . . . I don't know.  I don't know what's real now, Jess."

"Am I real?"

"Yes."

"You sound awfully sure.  How can you know?"

"Because you're my friend.  You always have been.  I haven't forgotten that.  Can you please let me loose?"

"I have just a few more questions, Steve, about this weekend with Elaine.  What do you remember from that?"

"The cabin was great, Jess!" Steve said with sudden enthusiasm.  "Elaine and I stayed in all weekend.  We spent most of Saturday in and out of the hot tub."  He sighed happily at the memory.  "I think it was just the break I needed."

"Are you sure?"

"What?  Yes, I'm sure.  Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"Steve, I want you to start from the time Elaine got in your truck and tell me everything you can about what happened this past weekend."

There was a long pause as Steve worked his way back, then he started to speak slowly, organizing his thoughts as he went.  "Well, she looked fantastic, and she said she felt bad that you, Dad, and Amanda couldn't come with us . . . "  

". . . and she admitted it was instant coffee, which for some reason really impressed me.  Maybe because she was being honest, even though it was unflattering to her."  Steve had gone on for several minutes telling what he and Elaine spoke about on the way up to the cabin, but now he stopped as if her were finished with his story.

"That's it?" Jesse asked.  "Steve you haven't even gotten to the cabin yet."

Steve frowned pensively.  The more he thought about it, the more it troubled him.  "I got real sleepy, Jess.  I had to stop the truck and let Elaine drive because there was something wrong with me.  I told her to get me to a hospital and to call Dad."

"Then what?"

"That's all I remember."

"Come on, Steve, think!"

Steve tried hard, but there was nothing.  He couldn't recall anything more of the weekend.  It seemed to him he had spent a lot of time in the hot tub with Elaine, and he thought he'd had some wine to drink, but he couldn't really remember it.  It was more like a story someone else had told him.

"Steve, what do you remember next about the weekend?"

"Coming home.  Walking into the house and seeing Dad."  Being confronted with a hole in his mind had shaken Steve, and his breathing had speeded up.  "Jesse, I don't remember the rest.  Why don't I remember?"

"I'm sorry, Steve, but I can't tell you.  You know what happened.  You just need to work it out and put it all together.  Think about it, Steve."

There was a very long silence then while Steve worked through in his head all of the things that he remembered.  It was as if he had too many memories for the weekend, and still, they were too few.  It was like there were two worlds for him, and he couldn't get them to match up.  Finally, he felt he had reached some sort of conclusion.

"Jess?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't go to the cabin, did I?"

"I can't tell you that, Steve.  You have to decided for yourself."

"I don't think I went.  I think, when I was in the Water, and the Voice and the Face and the Pain were there, I think that's when I was supposed to be at the cabin."

"But you said you and Elaine had a great time.  That you stayed in the hot tub."

"I know I said that, but I don't know if I remember it.  It's like I remember _White Fang or __Treasure Island, books I read as a kid.  They weren't real, but I remember them."_

"So, what happened this past weekend?"

"I . . . I fell asleep in the truck . . . and I woke up . . . in the Water."  Suddenly, Steve panicked again.  "Elaine!  Jesse, what happened to Elaine?  Did they get her, too?  Where is she?  I need to see her!"

"Elaine is fine, Steve," Jesse reassured him as he tried to hide his contempt for the woman who had helped try to destroy his best friend.  "She's safe and unharmed, but you can't see her until you have your memories back, buddy."

"Please, Jess, I have to see her!"

"I'm sorry, Steve, you can't."

"But, Jesse . . . "

"Steve, do you trust me?"

"Yes."  

Jesse was gratified to hear the answer come with no hesitation.  "Then believe me when I tell you, seeing her now could jeopardize your recovery.  Let's just work on getting you better, then, when you are ready, you can see her, ok?"

"She is all right?  You promise?"

"I promise, Steve."

Steve nodded, "Ok, then I will wait, but Jess, if you're lying to protect me, when I find out, I will hurt you."

Jesse smiled.  He despised Elaine, but the protective threat sounded more like his best friend than anything Steve had said since he'd first come to after shooting at Chief Masters.  "I'm not lying, Steve.  She's fine.  Now, I'm going to come release the restraints for you.  It will take me a couple of minutes to get there, but I promise I am coming straight to you, ok?"

"Ok.  Will I be able to talk to you?"

"Not until I get there, but I promise it really is only a couple of minutes away.  Why don't you think about what you want for breakfast while you wait for me?"

"Um, ok, but please, don't be long, Jess."

"I won't buddy.  You just hang in there."

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0830 hours.)**

Steve lay alone in his barren little room, trying very hard to stay calm until Jesse arrived.  He couldn't help but think that if he just knew where he was, it wouldn't be so hard.  This place wasn't Community General, he'd known that since the moment he'd woken up.  _It's more like a cell than a hospital room.  _Suddenly, pure panic took over again.

_Oh, God, have I broken some law?  Did I hurt someone?  I'd be in jail if I had, wouldn't I?  Maybe I've had some kind of breakdown._

He'd seen it happen before.  His old training partner, Reggie had fallen apart right before his eyes.  His wife and six-year-old daughter had been killed when Reggie had come home to find his wife in bed with a man Reggie had arrested a few years before.  His wife had hit her head on the nightstand when she was pushed out of the way, and his daughter had been shot when the man pulled a gun and he and Reggie fought for it.  Reggie had killed the man, emptying the entire clip into him.  Then he had sealed the man, his wife, and his daughter up in a wall.

"I didn't do something like that," Steve said aloud, but his own voice sounded much too desperate to give him any kind of reassurance.  "I couldn't have, he insisted."

Steve heard a soft click followed by a creak, and his heart started pounding.  As he looked around the room, he saw a part of the wall begin to shift.  _Maybe I am going mad._  He stared in horror as the wall slid open and a bright golden light flooded in from the outside.  Only when his best friend came in, smiling and saying, "Hi, buddy," did he realize it was not the wall, but a door with no handle on his side.

Steve let his head drop back onto the pillow, surprised to find himself shaking.  "Oh, God, Jess, it's good to see you."  He shut his eyes, but that didn't keep the tears of relief from falling.  He lay still and quiet as Jesse undid the restraints on his wrists and the wide strap across his chest.  Then he sat up and engulfed the younger man in a hug, just to be sure he was really there.

"Shhh, it's ok, Steve," a startled Jesse reassured his friend who clung to him for dear life.  "You're safe, I promise."

"Why am I here, Jess?  What did I do?"

"I can't tell you that, Steve, but I will help you remember," Jesse vowed.  "Everything will be all right again, you'll see."

For several minutes, Jesse sat there, holding his friend, speaking to him in soft, soothing tones.  Then, when Steve's grip relaxed, Jesse moved to undo the restraints that still held his feet.

"Am I going insane, Jess?" Steve asked as Jesse pressed the button that elevated the head of the bed.

Jesse suppressed a smile.  Under other circumstances, he might have said, 'Yes, but we love you anyway,' but he knew this was no rhetorical question.  His friend really did doubt his own sanity.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he placed a gentle hand on the frightened man's arm and said, "Look at me, Steve."

It took a few moments, but eventually, Steve complied.

"You are not losing your mind," he said firmly.  "You haven't done anything wrong, and you didn't harm anyone.  That's all I am allowed to tell you.  Things have happened to you, things I can't tell you about, but I will help you remember them.  The medication you are on," he said looking toward the IV bag, "is to help you remember, too.  It's some pretty powerful stuff, and it has some wicked side effects, including paranoia, confusion, and fear.  It also makes you highly suggestible, which is why I can't just tell you anything you want to know.  You have to work things out for yourself.  You have to know things, and believe them, and remember them all by yourself, in your own head.  It's going to be hard, Steve, and sometimes it's going to be frightening, but I will be here the whole time, so, whatever happens, you'll know you're not all alone.  Do you understand?"

After a brief pause, Steve nodded.  

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Jesse smiled.  The last two answers had come without any hesitation.  "Ok, then what do you want for breakfast?"

"French toast," Steve replied.

"That's it?"

"And . . . apple juice?"

"You heard the man," Jesse called to whomever was monitoring their conversation.  "He wants French toast and apple juice for breakfast.  And make it for two.  I haven't eaten yet either."

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  0900 hours.)**

Breakfast was a quiet affair.  Jesse used the time while they were waiting to check Steve's vital signs, all of which were good except for an elevated blood pressure easily attributed to stress.  Then he brought in an over-the-bed table for Steve to eat from, and a small folding table and chair for himself. 

They ate in silence until Jesse could stand it no more.  When they were nearly finished, he asked, "Why French toast and apple juice?"

Steve shrugged.  "No reason.  That's just what I felt like eating."

Jesse eyed his friend shrewdly for a moment and then said, "I don't believe you.  This stuff isn't your usual fare.  Come on, tell me the truth."

Steve smiled slightly.  It was a sad smile.  "It's a little embarrassing."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Jesse assured him.  "I'm not allowed to tell anyone."

Steve smiled again, amused this time.  "When I was a little kid, three or four years old, for some reason I used to have really bad nightmares.  I'd wake up screaming my lungs out."

"I see," Jesse commented thoughtfully.  "Usually kids outgrow that kind of thing fairly quickly."

"I did, too," Steve said, "but for a couple of years there, at least two or three times a week I would wake the whole house.  One time, the neighbors were up late and heard it, and they actually called the police."

Jesse laughed.  "Man, I would have liked to see your dad explaining that."

Steve laughed, too, but a shadow crossed his face.  "Well, they didn't take him to jail or put me in foster care, so I guess whatever he said worked."  Steve took another bite of his French toast.  "Anyway, sometimes, I would be way to scared to go back to sleep, and Dad would carry me out to the kitchen in his arms and sit me on the counter so I could watch while he fixed French toast.  He'd let me pour the apple juice because it came in a bottle with a small neck, and my hands weren't so big then, so I could handle it easier than the OJ or milk.  Then we'd sit at the table and talk and eat, and he'd take me back to bed and tuck me in with him and Mom.  I don't think I ever had a second bad dream on the nights that he'd fix me French toast and apple juice."

Jesse smiled.  "That's a nice story, Steve.  Thanks for sharing.  I guess you'd say it was the ultimate comfort food, huh?"

"I guess so," Steve agreed.  "It's one of the first foods I ever learned to make, just from watching him all those nights when it was just the two of us.  Mom would stay in bed because I was always embarrassed to have her see me when I was scared.  It was ok when dad took me to their bedroom, though, because by then, I wasn't all that scared anymore."

"You were born a tough guy, weren't you?"

Steve smiled, a little embarrassed, and shrugged, but didn't deny it.

"Well, I'll tell you, this French toast must be at least as good as Mark's, don't you think?" Jesse said, knowing Mark, who had spent the night watching his son sleep on a black and white monitor, had cooked it himself.

Steve shrugged.  "I wouldn't go quite that far."

Jesse frowned, concerned that even after the whole conversation, the mention of the elder Sloan's name had not provoked questions about his absence.  He was about to make another observation, about Mark's cooking when Steve cut him off.

"Jesse, how did my dad die?"

Jesse would never know how he had managed not to choke on the mouthful of food he had been chewing when Steve asked his question.  Perhaps the shock of hearing Steve's words had prevented him from doing anything before his brain engaged.  As he chewed and swallowed, he remembered that he couldn't tell his best friend anything and had to let Steve go on believing Mark was dead until Steve figured out the truth for himself.

"You know I can't tell you anything, Steve," Jesse said as calmly as he could.  The fact that Steve didn't notice his surprise must have had more to do with the medication, though, than with his own acting ability.

"Please, Jesse," Steve begged, his eyes reflecting his anguish.  "I know he is gone.  Isn't that enough?"

"I'm sorry, Steve, I know this must be very difficult for you, but I simply can't tell you anything."

"He was my father, Jess, don't I have a right to know how he died?"

"Yeah, you do," Jesse agreed, "but the meds you're on . . . make it easy for you to . . . believe things.  If I tell you instead of making you remember it, they won't be your memories."

"Does it really matter?"

"Yes, Steve, oh yes . . . " 

"But why?"

At first Jesse was hard pressed to explain, but then he remembered Steve's own words from earlier.  "You want memories of a life, buddy, not a story like _White Fang or __Treasure Island."_

Steve struggled for a minute, both with the pain of the loss and with the urge to plead once again to be told how his father had passed so he could have the painful business done with.  Finally, he regained command of himself and said, "Ok, help me remember.  What should I do?"

"Tell me how you think he died."

Steve rubbed his eyes and thought for a moment.  "It was an explosion, I think.  Caitlin Sweeney blew up the hospital."

After a moment, Jesse encouraged Steve, "Keep going.  How do you know she did it?"

"Dad told me, when we were trying to get out.  He'd seen her in the elevator."

Jesse nodded.  "Ok, then what?"

"We were . . . running out of the building and all of a sudden it just ripped apart."  The memories were coming fast now, almost faster than Steve could describe them.  He spoke quickly, trying to make the words keep up with his brain.  "You and I were trapped together.  We got out by moving some rubble.  Then we found Susan trapped in an elevator with some kids and some other personnel and a guy whose leg had been pinned, you amputated his leg while I led the others out.  The three of you got out of the elevator just before it fell.  Ron was outside.  He'd been thrown through a window or something.  We went back in to look for my dad and Amanda and  . . . and . . . "

Steve looked up in shock.  "We found them.  He'd saved her life.  She'd had trouble breathing, and he managed to fix it so she could breathe.  Jess, my dad didn't die when the hospital blew up."

"Just a couple minutes ago, you thought he had, Steve," Jesse pointed out.  "Why have you changed your mind?"

"Because he helped rebuild the hospital, and when Carter Sweeney escaped, he kidnapped my dad and made him help steal a Federal Reserve shipment of old bills to be incinerated.  There was that whole business with R.O.A.R. and everything.  I remember all of that, Jesse.  That's not how he died."

"Ok," Jesse agreed.  "As long as you're sure."

"I am, Jess, I'm positive."

Nodding, Jesse said, "Then try again."

Steve thought a moment, and Jesse could see by the pain in his face when he'd found another unpleasant memory.  "It was when his car blew up.  A guy I had put away was out of jail and he came after Dad.  First a package bomb was misdirected to Norman . . . Wait, that can't be when it happened.  Norman had left by the time the Sweeneys blew up the hospital."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I remember all of that.  It was some lady lawyer who was had power of attorney for one of his patients.  She wanted her inheritance a little early.  I remember all of it.  He smelled gas from where she had punctured the tank and he blew it up himself to stop the bombings."

"Try again," Jesse suggested.

"I know he came close when my house closed up on him, but I know that wasn't it, because he told me I couldn't bring my puce sofa home."

Jesse smiled, and Steve smiled back.  It had been a humorous moment, and typical of his father.  Then Steve frowned.  "I can't remember, Jess."  Steve closed his eyes, but in spite of his best efforts to be strong, the tears came again.  "My own father and I can't remember.  I ought to remember."

Jesse got up and came to sit on the edge of the bed.  He put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder and told him, "Steve, with what you have been through, he wouldn't blame you."

Steve looked up, his eyes filled with anguish.  "That doesn't matter, Jess," he insisted.  "There are things you should always remember about the people you love, and one of them is how you lost them."

Not knowing what else to say or do, Jesse just sat there and waited for his friend to calm down.  After several minutes, Steve finally regained control and said, "This isn't working, Jess.  I could go back over one bad memory after another, and never find the right one."

"I agree, so let's try something different.  Start with your most recent memory and work backward.  When's the last time you remember talking with your dad?"

"We were going to go away for the weekend, the four of us, you, me, him, and Amanda, but a bunch of people at the hospital were sick, and all three of you had to cancel so you could stay around and take up the slack."

Jesse hid a smile, they had to be on the right track now.  "Keep going, Steve, then what?"

Suddenly, Steve's eyes opened wide and his breathing grew fast and shallow.  "Oh, my God, Jess, that was just this past weekend.  Did it just happen?  Did he just die?"  Grabbing the smaller man by his shirt, Steve began to shake him.  "How did it happen, Jesse?  Dammit, tell me, how did it happen?"

Two burly orderlies who had been watching the proceedings from a closed circuit television in the hall came into the room then, their concern for the doctor's safety outweighing their concern for the patient's peace of mind, but Jesse shouted, "No!" to call them off.  Then, looking into his friend's eyes, he said, "I can't tell you, Steve.  You have to remember.  Think about it, buddy.  Think!"

Steve closed his eyes again and concentrated hard on gathering up loose ends and half thoughts to form them into some meaningful sequence if ideas.  As he thought, he gradually released his hold on Jesse, and Jesse dismissed the orderlies with a jerk of his head.

"I came back . . . " Steve said, slowly putting his words together.  " . . . from the weekend.  Dad made me dinner . . . stuffed chicken breast and pasta . . . We joked about my wanting a beer instead of the appropriate wine . . ."

"Then what?" Jesse urged his friend on when he paused for too long.

"He told me the sickness was giardia . . . from the water coolers . . . I thought it was suspicious, but he said it was lucky for the company that delivers the bottled water."  Words started tumbling over themselves as reality clicked into place.

"The next day, I was off, you, Dad, and Amanda were working.  I brought you guys lunch from Bob's and you got all weird because I wouldn't tell you what I did on the weekend.  Then the next day I went to work and we all had dinner at the beach house, and the day after that, I went to work and . . . I woke up here.  Jesse, my dad's alive!  Why did I think he was dead?  Oh, God, where is he?  Can I see him?  Why did I think he was dead?"

Hating to do it, but knowing he had to, Jesse asked, "What makes you think he's alive, Steve?"

"I don't think it, Jess.  I know it, just like I knew who you were."  Steve was suddenly fighting down sobs again.  He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed the tears from his eyes.  "_Please,_ let me see him.  Please, Jesse, can I see him?"

"Yeah, buddy, as soon as he can get here."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the door opened and Mark walked in.  As Jesse stood up and moved aside, Mark took his place and pulled his son into his arms.  "It's going to be all right, my boy.  It will all be ok, Son.  I'm here.  I have been all along, and I will be until you're home with me.  It's ok, Steve."

As Mark held his son and whispered reassurances, Jesse slipped out for a few minutes to compose himself.  He could only hope Mark wouldn't say something he shouldn't while he was alone with Steve.  He wondered how he would feel if he thought his dad had died, and decided, while he would be sad and feel the loss deeply, it could never devastate him as much as losing Mark would hurt Steve.


	9. The Benefit of Backbone

**Chapter 9:  The Benefit of Backbone **

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1000 hours.)**

Jesse decided to give Mark and Steve a good half hour together before he went back in to talk to them.  In the meantime, he spoke with Dr. Lewis for a few minutes, and together they had decided what the next step in Steve's treatment would be.  Then Jesse sat at one of the monitors and watched Steve and Mark for a little while.

To his surprise, the father and son didn't seem to have much to say to each other.  Most of their time was spent in silence with Steve lying back against the pillow, eyes closed, and Mark sitting on the edge of the bed, clasping his son's hand.  Every once in a while, Steve would open his eyes, as if to reassure himself that Mark was still there, and then he would close them again and doze contentedly for a few minutes.

As he smiled at the picture of familial closeness, he felt a warm, strong hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his own father smiling proudly at him.  "You've been a good friend to him, Son, and I know you're going to see him through this." 

Jesse smiled back.  The look on his dad's face gave him a warm happy feeling inside.  "Thanks.  I hope you're right.  I can't imagine what it was like for him, believing his dad was dead and trying to remember how it had happened, then suddenly realizing that he was wrong."

Dane Travis couldn't think of anything to say in return, so he just stood there quietly beside his son.

Soon the silence had stretched uncomfortably long, and Jesse had to stand up and say, "I . . . I think Steve and I ought to get back to work."

Dane just nodded, and began to walk away.  "I'll be in the main observation room."

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1030 hours.)**

Steve wasn't sure how long he'd been lying in bed, holding his father's hand, letting the relief wash over him when he heard the door to his room open.  Opening his eyes, he saw Jesse come in pushing a wheelchair.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, guys, but, Mark, I really think Steve and I need to get to work, now."

Mark got up to go, nodding his understanding, but Steve tightened his grip on his father's hand and said, "No, please, Dad, stay."

Mark looked at his son, wishing he could remain, and then at Jesse, and knew he couldn't.  The young doctor looked grim, but determined, and Mark was suddenly reminded that all of this had been very hard on Jesse, too.  Doing what little he could to make it somewhat easier on his young colleague, Mark gave Steve's hand a gentle squeeze and then slipped his fingers out of his son's grip.

"I'm sorry, Son, I can't."  Mark's heart constricted at the sight of his son's disappointment, but he continued talking as he made his way to the door.  "Right now it's best if you continue working steadily with one person, and that should be Jesse.  My presence would only interfere with things, but I promise I will be close by, all the time."

Heart breaking, Mark shut the door on his son almost begging, "I will see you later, won't I?"

With his father out of earshot, Steve turned to Jesse.  "I will see him again, right?  You'll let me see him?"

"Once you have reached your goal for the day, yes, you can see him again . . . "  As Steve began to ask a question, Jesse cut him off, continuing with, "I can't tell you what that goal is.  You have to get there on your own.  I can try to guide you a little, but I can't just let you set a course and steer right for it, because we might miss important things on the way."

Steve was thoughtfully quiet for a moment, then he asked, "You do know what the next goal is, right, Jess?"

Jesse smiled and nodded, "Oh, yeah, I know, and I will do my best to help you get there, buddy.  Now, your chariot awaits," he said, indicating the wheelchair, "so climb aboard."

"I'd rather walk," Steve said.

Sighing, Jesse took a seat on the edge of the bed so he could talk to Steve instead of talking down to him.  "This is not a negotiation, Steve," Jesse said, firmly but kindly.  "I will explain why things need to be a certain way, and then that is what we will do.  Do you understand?"

"Yeah, but . . . "

"No _buts_, Steve.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes, ok, whatever you say," Steve agreed without being agreeable.

"All right," Jesse began, "I know you would rather walk, and I can't blame you, but I can't allow it.  I want you in the chair so I can put safety belts on you."

"Safety belts?" Steve said in surprise, and then the implication sank in.  "You mean restraints," he said accusingly.  Suddenly, all nerves, offended, embarrassed, and a little frightened at the prospect of being trussed up like a wild animal, he began to beg.  "Please, don't, Jesse.  I promise I'll be good.  Really.  Anything you want me to do, just say so, but please, don't tie me down."

His friend's pleas all but shattered Jesse's professional veneer.  "I have no choice, Steve," he said, and hearing his own voice shaking, he paused for a moment to steady himself.  Seeing the fear and anxiety in Steve's eyes, almost made him lose his resolve, but he knew he didn't dare give in, and so he looked away for a moment and took a few deep breaths.  _Come on, Jesse, he needs help, not sympathy.  You have to be strong for him, because he can't be right now.  Give him the benefit of your backbone, not your bleeding heart.  _

Finally, he was able to meet Steve's gaze, and hoping the look in his own eyes combined caring concern with the clear message that he absolutely would not back down, he spoke.  "In a few minutes, I am going to change the mix of your medications, and that has a lot of potential side effects.  I know you're already experiencing confusion, anxiety, memory loss, and heightened mood swings.  The new meds are going to add the possibility of hallucinations, delusions, and uncontrollable rage to that list.  I can't risk you becoming a danger to yourself or someone else."

"But, Jesse . . . "

"No, Steve, no way," Jesse insisted.  "Do you seriously think I could stop you if you had a frightening hallucination and it sent you running for the hills?  Could I defend myself if you flew off the handle and decided to use me for a punching bag?"

"Jesse, I would never . . . "

"You don't know that, Steve, and, right now, neither do I," Jesse cut him off again.  "Now look, your arms will be free.  The chest belt fastens behind you, and the lap belt latches underneath the seat at the side, both out of your reach, just in case.  Please, Steve, don't fight me on this, you won't win.  Just get in the chair."

Somehow, Steve knew with utter certainty that his friend wasn't going to give in, and the thought that Jesse really believed he could be a threat to anybody, himself included, frightened him.  Without another word, he got out of the bed, and with a little help from Jesse, settled into the wheelchair, and let his friend strap him in.  Jesse placed the light blanket from the bed over his lap, probably as much to hide some of the restraints as to keep him warm.  Steve sat quietly as Jesse pulled a syringe out of his white coat and injected its contents into the bag of IV solution.  Then, Jesse moved the IV over to the chrome stand that was attached to the wheelchair, and, as they moved out of the room and slowly down the hall, Steve waited for the new drugs to take effect.

The two friends didn't say a word as they traveled the length of the building.  Jesse wasn't sure what Steve was feeling, but he was more than a little apprehensive.  If Steve did begin to hallucinate or fly off into a rage, the drug combination was no good.  They would have to stop work immediately, wait until the new meds were out of his system, and then try a different mix in a couple of days, all the while keeping him on a basic combination of strong psychoactive drugs to prevent the false memories from solidifying.  Every time they tried new meds, they were risking frying Steve's brain for good, making him a permanent mental patient.  Jesse would never forgive himself if that happened, and worse yet, he didn't think Mark or Amanda would either.

Jesse surfaced from his wanderings to discover that they had reached their destination without incident.  Of course, what Jesse knew and Steve didn't was that the true test lay behind the doors that loomed in front of them.  _'Treatment Room'.  What an innocent sounding place, but it might as well read 'Torture Chamber.'  _Jesse crouched down to face his patient.  There were some other things he had to do before he could take Steve in there.

"Steve, buddy, look at me."  Jesse was not surprised when his friend looked up reluctantly and then quickly looked away again.  Among other things, as they first hit the system, the drugs he had given Steve were known to create feelings of fear and insecurity, and he knew it would be almost impossible for Steve to maintain eye contact for any length of time.  "Come on, pal, it's me, Jess, look at me."

Steve lifted his head and held Jesse's gaze for just a moment.  Then he turned his head slightly and refocused his eyes just above Jesse's right shoulder.

"How are you feeling, pal?"

Steve frowned drawing his brows together, and once again, he lowered his head.  "It . . . uh . . . it's really hard to focus, Jess.  I . . . I . . . "

It seemed almost to require a physical effort for Steve to express his thoughts, but Jesse waited patiently while Steve searched for the words.

"These thoughts . . . memories . . . they keep . . . flying through my head, and . . . I can't stop them, Jess . . . I . . . I can't think . . . I don't know . . . "  Steve looked right into Jesse's eyes, then, desperately seeking something.  "I can't tell what's real, Jess.  Help me."

"Hey, buddy, you know I will," Jesse said, and put a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder even as Steve looked away again.  "I'm just going to check your vitals," Jesse continued to speak soothingly, "and we'll see how you're feeling in a few minutes, ok?"  There was a chance the worst of the side effects would go away as the drug levels stabilized in Steve's blood.

Steve nodded grimly, and closed his eyes while Jesse got the thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and stethoscope from the cart that had been placed outside the door of the so-called treatment room earlier.  "Open your mouth for the thermometer, pal," Jesse said, "and roll up your sleeve so I can check your BP, ok?"

Steve complied with both requests without ever opening his eyes.  His breathing was fast and heavy, and it was plain to Jesse that he was focusing almost all of his attention on the effort of simply holding himself together while the jumbled mass of thoughts and ideas tumbled through his mind.  Jesse checked Steve's pulse and counted his respirations before he inflated the blood pressure cuff.  Both were a little on the high side, as was his BP and his temperature, and Jesse decided that if he didn't settle down in the next thirty minutes, that they would just go back to Steve's room and try again another day.

Surreal images floated through Steve's consciousness.  Some of them he knew were real, and some of them he knew were not.  Others, he just wasn't sure.  A vivacious blond named Lily went flying over the hood of a car, and he felt inexplicably sad.  Then an engine exploded, parts flying everywhere.  He heard his sister crying for him, begging him to help.  Then he was scattering her ashes.  He was surfing with Jesse, and he wiped out.  He swam powerfully for the surface, only to come up with a handful of sand.  He'd gone the wrong way, how stupid!  He should have watched the bubbles and followed them to the surface.  They always went up.  His lungs burned for want of oxygen, and he felt the blackness closing in.

"Steve?"

The voice was a long way off.

"Steve, come on, buddy, focus on me."

He knew that voice.

"Come on, Steve, get a handle on it.  Calm yourself down.  Deep, slow breaths."

That voice was trying to help.  He started breathing, and found he was no longer under water.

"That's it, buddy, just breathe."  Jesse was deeply concerned.  For a moment there, Steve had seemed somewhere else entirely.  He'd been flailing aimlessly and holding his breath.  Jesse had watched nervously, not wanting to interfere because Dr. Lewis had told him it was best to let nature take its course, but when the arm movements stopped and Steve still hadn't drawn a breath, he decided it was time to intervene.

"Keep talking," Steve gasped.

"Ok, you're doing fine, Steve.  Deep, slow breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth.  Try to do it on an eight count.  In, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!  Out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight!  Good job, buddy, keep it up."

They were fifteen minutes into the half an hour Jesse had allowed, and since Steve was now doing a relaxation exercise, he decided to let it continue and see what would happen.  He checked Steve's pulse and blood pressure again and counted his breaths, and then started over repeatedly until Steve began to come round.  Surprisingly, within ten minutes all of Steve's vital signs were within normal range.  

"Steve, you with me, buddy?"

"Yeah," Steve said, opening his eyes and meeting Jesse's gaze willingly.

"You're all right now?"

Steve nodded.  "I think so.  My head's a little clearer, now.  What happened?"

"The drugs mess with the chemicals in your brain.  Until you adjust to them, they can cause some pretty weird reactions."

"I thought I was drowning."

Jesse nodded.  That certainly explained the arm flailing and breath holding.  "Ok.  I'm going to check your vitals one more time, including your temp."

Jesse performed the final checks, and even waved a penlight in Steve's eyes for good measure, and when everything seemed to be ok, he asked his friend, "How do you feel?"

"Still kind of nervous.  A little confused.  But I'm all right, I think."

"Any more random thoughts?"

Steve considered his answer a moment and then nodded.  "A few, but not so many, and they're not so distracting.  I can hold on to one idea at a time now."

Jesse agreed.  "You seem a lot more coherent.  I think you're ready to go ahead and do this today, what do you think?"

"Since I don't know what we're doing that's kind of hard to answer, but if the alternative is bed rest, I don't need any more of that."

Jesse grinned.  "That's good enough for me."  

Jesse opened the doors to the treatment room and slowly wheeled Steve in.  _Please don't let him freak on me, now.  _

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1115 hours.)**

"Oh, God, Jesse, no!  You promised I wouldn't have to go in there again.  You promised!"  Such was Steve's panic that he struggled to move the wheelchair, not realizing that Jesse had applied the brakes.  When he found that he was going nowhere despite his best efforts, he tried to rise out of the chair, and when that didn't work, he began clawing at the restraints across his chest and lap.  All the while, he was shouting, "Jesse, no!  You promised!  You _promised_!"

Very calmly, Jesse came around in front of Steve.  With an effort, he was able to grab the larger man's wrists and hold his hands down.  He was just very lucky that Steve didn't decide to start kicking.  The lap belt held him in the chair, but Jesse had elected not to use ankle restraints to preserve at least some of his friend's dignity.  Steve struggled and squirmed a little, but Jesse hand managed to cross his arms at the wrists and force his hands to his lap so that he could get very little leverage.

"Look at me, Steve," Jesse said again.  It was becoming their mantra.

With his arms effectively restrained now, Steve ceased his shouting and pleading, but he was still looking over Jesse's shoulder in stark terror.

"Look at me, Steve."

Steve continued to stare for several moments, but finally, he dragged his gaze to Jesse's face.  "You _promised_," he whispered.

"I know," Jesse said gently, "and I'm not breaking that promise.  You don't have to go back into the water any more, but you need to see it.  You need to see what is in this room so you can begin to unravel what happened to you.  Now, we're going to go closer, and you're going to take a good look at that water tank, ok?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, but I will be right here with you the whole time, so nothing bad can happen, ok?"

"G-give me a minute."

"All right."  Jesse released his grip on Steve's wrists and slowly moved his hands up to his friend's shoulders.  Looking Steve in the eye, he said firmly, "You can do this."

After a few minutes, Steve nodded, and said, "Ok, I think I'm ready."

As Jesse slowly wheeled him toward the circle of golden light and the hateful tank of Water, Steve could feel his heart move into his throat and his stomach begin to churn with fear.

"Oh, God, stop a minute."

Obediently, Jesse stopped, and immediately placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.  Steve drew strength from the contact.  He closed his eyes and drew a couple of deep breaths, and finally he said, "Ok, I can do this."

Jesse didn't say anything, but he did pat Steve on the shoulder before he began slowly pushing him forward again.


	10. Shattering the Illusions

**Chapter 10:  Shattering the Illusion**

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1130 hours.)**

Steve sat before the Water tank staring at it apprehensively for a long time.  Feeling Jesse's presence behind him was the only thing that gave him the strength to approach the instrument of his recent torture.  Chief among the array of emotions that assaulted him was fear, but he was also experiencing grief, anger, frustration, anxiety, confusion, and a deep sense of shame.  Strangely, he also recognized happiness, warmth, and a sense of belonging.  Most troubling of all was the fact that he had no specific memories attached to any of his feelings. 

"Steve?"  Jesse did not miss the tremor that went through his friend when he called his name.

Steve looked over his shoulder at Jesse, and then back to the Water tank.  "I know it doesn't look intimidating, but . . . what happened to me in there . . . I don't remember much, but I know it was very bad."  He looked up at Jesse again, and said, "First, I thought I was dying, then I wished I could.  I would have done anything to make it stop."

Jesse saw the fear and shame in his friend's eyes, and he searched for the right words.  To say he understood would be a lie.  To say that everything was going to be all right would not only be trite, but also very uncertain.  Finally, Jesse was able to respond to his best friend's confession.  "I read the notes, the ones made by the people who did this to you.  I'm not surprised, Steve.  They were counting on it."

Steve pressed his lips together into a tight, thin line, and looked back to the tank.  It glowed eerily golden in the light from the single bulb suspended above it.  "Sometimes, I would feel this terrible pain all through me, sometimes it was like being burned, other times, it was like being cut in a thousand places at once."

Jesse wheeled him toward one of the corners, which were reinforced with metal brackets and pointed out some wires that lay on the inside of the tank.  "The electrolyte balance of the water is almost exactly that of the human body.  It was the perfect conductor."

Steve frowned thoughtfully.  "Electricity?  They were shocking me?"

"Yeah.  And because you were immersed in the conductor, it was perfect contact, and there were no burn marks."

"Why?  Why would they do that to me?  Why do that to anyone?"

Jesse smiled sadly.  "That's what you need to figure out for yourself today."

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1230 hours.)**

Steve hunkered down miserably in his chair in a corner of the room.  The things he had learned in the past hour boggled the mind.  He'd been given a tour of the room in which he'd been tortured, and the effort that had gone into whatever it was they had tried to do to him was absolutely incredible.

After he had taken a good long look at the tank, Jesse had asked for the lights to be brought up, and Steve had been able to see all the equipment that had been used to make him suffer.  The room was the size of an airplane hangar.  It had no windows, the walls had been painted black, the ventilation system ran silently.  For some reason, Steve wasn't surprised to see a parabolic microphone.  He remembered looking for one and not being able to find it.  There were speakers everywhere, a data projector hooked up to a computer, and a screen cut precisely to size for the images it projected.  Video cameras were mounted in all four corners of the room, directly above the Water tank, and in the floor on all four sides of it.  High on the wall opposite the tank, there was an observation room with heavily tinted glass.  It was a depressing, intimidating place.

"Is my dad watching?" Steve asked.

"I don't know," Jesse said.  "Somebody is."

"How can you tell?"

"There are people watching you all the time, Steve.  Even in your sleep."  When he saw his friend stiffen in the chair, he tried to soothe him, explaining, "It will all be kept confidential, Steve, but anything you say or do could be the key to getting you through this.  We can't risk missing it, even if it means invading your privacy."

Steve just nodded and scowled at everything around him.

"You ok, buddy?"  Jesse asked.

Steve shook his head.  "Actually, I feel kind of sick."

Jesse was instantly feeling his forehead and checking his pulse, but Steve shook him off.  "Stop it, Jess.  I wasn't being literal."

"Oh, I see.  Then could you explain what you mean?"

Steve nodded and thought a minute.  "Someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to . . . do something to me, didn't they?"

"Yeah, and a lot of expense," Jesse agreed.  "They've got hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of lab and electronic equipment here, and they just ran off and left it."

"But I don't remember any of it."

"It will come back in time, Steve, you just have to be patient."

Steve gave his young friend a penetrating gaze.  "You don't know that."

Jesse shrugged.  He couldn't deny it.

"Anyway," Steve continued, "have you ever had to memorize something and recite it later, like for school or something?"

"Yeah, when I was a kid," Jesse said, a little confused about where the conversation was headed, "for school plays and stuff, I had to memorize things all the time."

"And do you know what it's like when you haven't actually prepared thoroughly, and you're scared to death you're going to be called on, how you get all queasy and shaky and feel like you're gonna upchuck?"

"Yeah, been there, done that, center stage during a dress rehearsal of Jack and the Beanstalk."

Steve frowned.  "Way too much information, Jess."

"Sorry," Jesse apologized.  "Then sometimes, you are prepared, but you're afraid you're going to go blank."

Steve nodded.  "That's what I meant when I said I feel a little sick.  I've been here, and I know what happened, but I can't put it all together, and I can't make sense out of it, and I'm afraid someone is going to come quiz me on it, and I'll fail."

Jesse gave his friend a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.  "That's why I'm here, pal, to make sure that doesn't happen."

Appreciating the contact, Steve reached up and patted the hand on his shoulder.  "Thanks, Jess, I think I just needed to hear that."

**(Wednesday, 09 July, 2003.  1330 hours.)**

"Come on, Jess, I'm hungry," Steve complained for the third time.

"I know.  So am I.  Now, finish sorting the pictures."

"Can we have some lunch then?"

"Just finish sorting the pictures, Steve."

Steve had spent the past hour sorting through the images that had been shown to him while he was floating in the water, deciding which ones were real and which had been faked.  Sometimes it was difficult for him because all of the pictures triggered memories, and he couldn't always tell if the memories were real or faked, either.  So, first he had to work out whether what he remembered was real, and then he had to decide whether someone would actually take a picture of it or not.  Eventually, he realized that no one would want to keep photos of the bad things that had happened in his life, so it became easy to put the pictures of himself in the hospital and his friends in pain and his father in prison into the fake pile.  

Some of the other photographs, though, were harder to sort.  The Christmas picture with Carol and Norman in it made him inexplicably sad, yet everyone in the picture looked so happy.  He remembered some very tense times with his sister that Christmas, but hadn't they patched things up before she left?  He remembered singing Christmas carols around the tree that year.  He could only recall having one real Christmas with his sister after she married Bruce.  It must have been this one.  He put the picture in the real pile and grabbed another from the stack.

"Steve?"  Jesse knew the minute his friend looked at the picture that something was wrong.  Steve had immediately begun breathing hard, rocking back and forth in his chair, and whimpering like a frightened animal.  He was holding the photograph so tightly it was tearing, and the raw fear in his eyes was so intense that even the normally keen intellect that usually resided there had been forced out.

One by one, Jesse gently pried Steve's fingers from the picture of Chief Masters.  Then he put the photograph aside and moved to be directly in front of his friend.  Steve still stared at the picture by looking over his shoulder.  "What's wrong, Steve?  Tell me what's wrong."

"Don't you recognize it?  It's the Face," Steve replied in a terrified whisper.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Jesse lied, for he had seen the notes, and he probably knew better than Steve did why the photograph had been so upsetting.  "Explain for me."

"It killed my dad, Jess," Steve sobbed, "and it hurt you, and it hurt Amanda, and Carol and Norman, and everybody, and it brought the Pain!  Please, Jesse, make it go away.  Make it go away and never come back.  I'll do anything.  Anything you want, just make it go away!"

Jesse resisted the urge to reach out and turn the picture face down.  He knew Dr. Lewis would give him hell if he did.  Last night while Steve was sleeping, he had consulted with her, and she had made it clear that until Steve remembered his attempt to assassinate the Chief and the reasons for it, he was to be kept completely powerless.  All of his requests, pleas, and demands were to be ignored unless they were directly instrumental to the goal of helping him remember what had happened.  It was her opinion that 'appeasing Steve in any way could accidentally become the first step in a negotiation process that would enable him to conceal any secondary programming Mateo might have attempted.'  She had only made an exception for Mark that morning because, in her judgment, 'the confirmation that his father was alive and well would help stave off depression and make him more willing to work on recovering his memories.'

"Jesse, _please_, make it go away!  I'll do anything you want, anything."

"Look at me, Steve."  Steve continued staring over his shoulder at the photograph, so Jesse placed a hand at either side of his friend's face and physically turned his head so that he had to make eye contact.  "Look at me, Steve.  You know that's just a photo, right?"

"But it always brings the Pain, Jess," Steve whined, "and it killed my dad and hurt you and Amanda, and  . . . and  . . . and everyone!  Please, Jess, tell me what I have to do to make it go away.  Please, Jess, I'll do anything.  It's bad and I hate it!  Plea . . . "

"Stop it!" Jesse snapped.  His words had the effect he had hoped for, and they pulled his friend's rambling up short.  "We're going to take things one step at a time here, Steve.  First, you know it's just a photograph, right?"

Steve nodded.

"Say it, Steve.  It's just a photograph."

"It's just a photograph."

"Can a photograph hurt you, Steve?"

"It always brings the Pain, Jess, and it killed . . . "

"One thing at a time, Steve.  Answer my question.  Can a photograph hurt you?"

"No."  The big man whispered the word like a frightened child.

"Ok, now, do you remember what caused the pain?"

"The Face, Jesse, the Face did it.  It killed . . . "

"Stop, Steve.  The Face is just a photograph."  Jesse used the same words again.  Steve was barely coherent as it was, to start mixing in words like photo, picture, and image would only confuse him.  They had identified it as 'just a photograph', so it would remain 'just a photograph.'  "Can just a photograph really hurt you?"

"But it was always there with the Pain, Jess."

"Can just a photograph hurt you?"

"No," Steve said again.  

"Then what really caused the pain?"

Steve bowed his head and closed his eyes.  Jesse wasn't sure at first if his friend was thinking or hiding, so he waited.  Steve was still rocking slightly, and his breathing was still a little rapid, but he hadn't quite gone all to pieces, and Jesse was hoping to keep it that way.  For several minutes, Steve said nothing, and finally, Jesse was forced to speak.

"Steve, we talked about this.  Do you remember what really caused the pain?"

"Electricity in the Water," Steve said in a small, frightened voice, and he never looked up to face his friend.  "Someone wanted to hurt me."

"Did the face do it?"

"No."

"How do you know?"  
  


"Because the Face is just a photograph."  Jesse didn't know if Steve believed the words or not, but simply getting him to say them was important by itself right now.  He was sure once they had worked through everything that had happened to him, Steve would really believe that it was nothing more than a harmless photo.

"Did it kill your dad?" Jesse asked softly.

"No.  Dad's alive.  I saw him today."  Steve still did not look up, but Jesse couldn't miss the small smile that betrayed his friend's pleasure at knowing his father was alive and well.

"Good," Jesse said and he smiled, too.  "Ok, Steve, I want you to think carefully before you answer this next question.  Don't just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, think it through first, and be sure your answer makes sense.  Who really hurt you?"

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and frowned, obviously deep in concentration.  Jesse could see the expressions changing on his face as he considered and rejected several possibilities.  Finally, dejectedly, he said, "I don't know."

"You have no idea?"

"Well . . . I think it was the Voice."

"Just a voice, Steve?  The sound of a voice hurt you, caused you all that pain?"

Steve looked up at his friend.  "There must have been a person," he said hopefully.  "Right, Jess?  There had to be a person."

"You tell me, Steve."

Steve nodded, Jesse could see that ideas were clicking fast in his friend's mind now.  "There had to be a person, I just don't know who it was; and that person wanted to hurt me."

"Why?"

"How the hell should I know, Jesse?" his friend fairly shouted the question.  Fear had given over to frustration, which would quickly rise to anger if Steve didn't find his answers soon.

"You _do_ know, Steve," Jesse insisted.  "_Think about it.  _What_ happened to you while you were here?"_

Steve began rocking again, but this time, Jesse had the feeling that it was merely the action of a man who thought best when he was in motion.

"At first, I felt warm and safe, and I saw the nice pictures.  But eventually the bad pictures came, and I always saw the Face with them, and I felt the Pain."  Steve began talking faster and faster, mostly thinking out loud, and Jesse decided to let him go until he ran out of ideas.  "I saw my dad die again and again and again, and I felt the Pain, and the Voice told me the Face caused it.  The Voice told me the Face killed my dad.  I'd see you and Amanda all bloody and beaten, and I'd feel the Pain, and the Voice told me the Face did that too.  The Voice told me the Face wanted to kill you and Amanda and everybody I cared about."

Steve looked up, and Jesse could see the haunted expression in his friend's eyes, but he could also see that Steve was aware that he was remembering things, not reliving them, so he let him continue.  

"I didn't believe the Voice at first, Jess, I really didn't, but after a while, there weren't any more nice pictures.  It was all just bad things and Pain and the Face and the Voice telling me the Face was causing it all.  I couldn't remember any more why I shouldn't believe the Voice.  Then I did believe it, and I told it I would do anything to make the Pain stop and to make the Face go away and stop hurting me and the people I care about."

Steve stopped.  He was sitting very still, now, and somehow, Jesse was sure that he had worked out what had happened next, but he was reluctant to say so because he was unwilling to face the consequences.

"What did the voice tell you to do, Steve?"

"It . . . it told me  . . . I had to . . . "  He swallowed hard and then finished in a rush, "I had to kill the man with the Face and then kill myself."

Knowing how absurd the next question sounded considering that his friend was sitting right there in front of him, Jesse asked,  "Did you do it, Steve?"

"Yes," Steve said, and he looked horror stricken, "I killed the man with the Face.  I shot him three times in the chest and once in the head.  Then I tried to kill myself, but . . . people stopped me."  

Steve covered his eyes with one hand and shuddered.  "Oh, God, Jess, I've murdered someone."  The words escaped on a long sob that shook the big man's whole frame, and then, he sat very still and silent.

After several long minutes, Steve looked around, his eyes shrewdly scanning his surroundings.  "Is this a secure mental hospital?  Is that why I'm restrained?  Are they trying to decide if I am fit to stand trial?"

With a sigh, Jesse ignored the questions.  Difficult as it had been, they had almost reached their goal for the day.  Just a few loose ends, and Steve could rest.  Jesse doubted he would be in the mood for lunch now. 

"Steve, you know the man with the face.  You know him by name.  I want you to look at the picture and tell me who he is.  Tell me his name, and tell me how you know him."

Somehow, Steve seemed to sense that he was near the end of his ordeal, and he didn't offer any resistance to the request.  He looked over Jesse's shoulder at the picture, and when his friend moved out of the way, he reached out and picked up the photograph.

"His name is John Masters.  He's my boss."  Looking up at Jesse, his eyes reflecting deep anguish and regret, he said, "I assassinated the Chief of Police."

"All right, doctor," a new Voice, a woman's Voice, said over the speakers, and Steve went mad with fright screaming and clawing at his restraints, "you can tell him the rest of the story now."

Silently cursing Dr. Lewis, Jesse once again had to manually restrain his friend, pinning his hands in his lap and crossing his wrists.  He noticed that Steve had broken several fingernails while tearing at his restraints, and one digit would eventually require medical attention because the nail had split right down to the quick and was bleeding.

In low, even tones, Jesse patiently told and retold the story of Steve's nightmares, the hypnosis he had allowed Mark to perform, the truth they had discovered, and the plan Mark and the Chief had organized for Steve's benefit.  

On the third retelling, Jesse's words began sinking in, and Steve gradually calmed down.  Finally, physically exhausted and emotionally spent, Steve slowly leaned forward, rested his cheek against Jesse's shoulder, and dissolved in tears.


	11. The Daily Grind

**Chapter 11:  The Daily Grind  **

**(Friday, 25 July, 2003.  0900 hours.)**

Steve nervously paced his barren white cell.  This was only his second consecutive drug-free day, and in one hour, he was due to meet with his intended victim for the first time since he had tried to kill him.  He wished he had another day or two to collect himself before meeting his boss, but he knew it had to be done quickly before the drugs completely left his system, otherwise, there would be no possibility of further treatment even if it was necessary.

Steve had already been told how the meeting would go.  He would be restrained in a chair, not a wheelchair, thankfully, but restrained nonetheless.  While a part of him initially chafed at the indignity, he knew they couldn't risk the possibility that they had somehow missed some secondary programming that still made him a threat to the Chief, so he had held his peace.  At least they were letting him wear regular clothes-jeans and a button-down shirt- instead of his pajamas, and he was being allowed to walk into the room under his own power before the Chief arrived.

No topic of conversation would be off limits, and Steve already knew what he wanted to talk about.  He wasn't sure what instructions they were giving the Chief, but Steve had a hunch that he would be allowed to steer the conversation himself.  He could ask any questions he wanted, and he had a list in his head already.  

The two of them would be alone in a room together.  If and when Dr. Lewis believed it was safe, she would send someone in to remove Steve's restraints.  If she determined it was not safe for the Chief to be alone with Steve while he was unrestrained, the Chief would have to leave, and Steve would be medicated again and made to suffer through several more days of therapy.

The past two weeks had been more hell than Steve would have thought a living man could endure.  It wasn't that any particular experience had been all that bad, but he had been forced to bear so much in such a short span of time.  

The day after discovering he had tried, and thankfully failed, to assassinate the Chief, he had suddenly found himself reliving the grief of his sister's death all over again.  They'd just been talking, him, his dad, and Jesse, about something amusing that had happened when he was a kid, and all of a sudden, it was there, the memory that Carol was dead.

_"I tried to tell her to shift her weight to her back foot," Steve said sheepishly._

_"I know," his dad laughed, "but she couldn't hear you over the waves."  Looking at Jesse, Mark said, "Carol did very well at first, but then she had this spectacular wipeout, lost the top to her bathing suit, and had to wait out in the surf until Steve brought her a towel.  Once she wrapped herself up, she ran dripping up the beach, crying, with Steve running behind her, apologizing and trying not to laugh.  She yelled, 'It wouldn't be so funny if I had drowned!' and slammed the door in his face.  The top to her suit washed up on the beach right in front of the house two days later."_

_Suddenly, Steve became very quiet._

_"Son?"_

_"I should have taken better care of her, Dad."  He looked sadly up at his father and best friend, and said, "I couldn't have saved her if I'd known she was in trouble, she was just too far away, but I should have taken better care of her when I had the chance."_

_"Son, you were good to your sister," Mark reassured him.  "You were good to her, and she knew it."_

_"I should have taken better care of her."_

_"Steve . . . "_

_"Please, Dad, I don't want to talk about it right now."_

_After a few silent minutes, his dad and Jesse had left him be.  He'd lain in his bed, trying hard not to cry, but the drugs in his system made him like a cork in a stormy emotional sea, and for several hours, he'd drifted from grief to guilt to anger over the death of his sister.  Finally, he was emotionally and physically exhausted, and he'd fallen into a long, dreamless sleep._

_When he'd woken up, a woman named Dr. Kathleen Lewis was there to talk with him and help him deal with the grief and guilt.  Steve could tell immediately that Jesse didn't much like Dr. Lewis, but to Steve, Kat, as she encouraged him to call her, had been nothing if not kind and compassionate._

Steve smiled.  Kat had been an unexpected bright spot in his ordeal.  He knew better than to expect any kind of real relationship to ever develop, but he had come to look forward to his daily meetings with her.  She was pretty, in a severe way, and kind and patient, and he just felt better for talking to her.  He found, maybe because she was a stranger, that he didn't want to hold back when she asked him how he felt about something.

It had taken a lot of hard work to get him past the shame of what he had done and the fear of that horrible room with the Water and the Voice and the Face and the Pain.  Even now, after all that had happened, Steve wasn't totally convinced that he had nothing to be ashamed of, but at least Kat had gotten him to accept that nobody could blame him after what he'd been through.  The fact that he'd been tricked into accepting it was beside the point.

_"Steve," Kat began urgently before she even sat down, "I need some advice.  You're a cop, and I thought you might be able to help me."_

_"Kat, what's wrong?"_

_"I have a friend, she's a little younger than Jesse, and she's in some really serious trouble.  She's hiding out right now, and she's asked me for help.  I need to tell her what to do."_

_"Well, what kind of trouble is she in, Kat?  What happened?"_

_"She's been living with this boyfriend of hers, and he's real trouble.  For the longest time, it was like he was controlling her.  She couldn't do anything without his permission.  I didn't even see her for weeks at a time.  And he beat her up, Steve, more than once."_

_"Then she needs to get away from him."_

_"That's what I kept telling her, but it's too late for that now."  Surprisingly, Kat was on the verge of tears.  "Her family, that's her mother and her kid brother, had finally coaxed her to come home.  They thought she was safe, but he came after her at the house.  He just barged in with a baseball bat looking for her.  She was upstairs, and her mom told him to go away or she would call the police.  He hit her mom, hard, I guess, and she died.  My friend got her mom's gun from the bedroom, and came downstairs, and found him threatening her kid brother.  She didn't know what else to do, so she shot him.  Now her mom is dead, and so is her boyfriend, and she's hiding from the police and doesn't know what to do."_

_"Kat, if it really happened just that way, she needs to turn herself in immediately."_

_"But, Steve, she killed him!"_

_"I know, but given the circumstances, she really didn't have much choice.  If it really happened the way you just told me, there's a small chance the DA might not press charges.  Even if he does, a jury would never convict her based on what you just told me.  As long as she didn't provoke the arguments or previously threaten him, it was pure and simple self-defense."_

_Kat had pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully.  "Did you really believe the Chief had killed your dad?"_

_Steve instantly went on high alert.  "It's not the same, Kat."_

_"Why not?  And before you answer, keep in mind you were still too drugged to have a will of your own, let alone form a plan."_

It had taken several hours of arguing, but finally, Steve had surrendered and agreed that he wasn't quite the cold-blooded murderer he was beating himself up for being.  From there, it had been a gradual process of accepting that he had nothing to be ashamed of.  Now, it seemed likely that once he could meet with the Chief and see that his superior was all right and did not blame him, Steve could forgive himself for what he had been made to do. 

There had been a couple of really awful days in the past few weeks, and though they had slowed Steve's treatment somewhat, they hadn't materialized into the setbacks everyone had feared they would become.  They had come back to back, which made them even worse, but somehow better because in Steve's mind they would be eternally blended into one horrible, frightening incident instead of two separate nightmares.

The first had come just a couple of days after he remembered Carol's death.  As per the usual routine, Jesse had strapped him into the wheelchair and administered the drugs.  They began to take effect in just a few moments.  It was yet another new mixture.  They changed his meds every few days because the drugs were so potent that taking the same medication for any length of time could cause lifelong addiction and possibly irreversible brain damage.

_"How do you feel, Steve?"_

_Steve frowned and scratched his arm.  "Itchy."_

_Jesse laughed slightly and said, "Maybe we can get you some moisturizing lotion after your shower today."_

_"No, Jess, I mean I feel really itchy."_

_Jesse checked where the IV entered Steve's skin and sure enough, it was already red and puffy.  By the time he had removed the IV and got his friend back into bed, Steve was had broken out in hives and begun wheezing.  The first dose of epinephrine slowed the reaction somewhat, but still, in a matter of minutes, the hives had spread to his throat and mouth, and Jesse just barely managed to intubate him before his tongue swelled, closing his airway completely.  A second shot of epi stabilized him briefly, but by then, the small amount of the psychoactive drugs that had made it into his system had saturated his brain and he began to have seizures._

_For twelve hellish hours, his dad, Jesse, and Amanda had sat with him as he drifted in and out of consciousness wracked by convulsions and pain.  They found they couldn't even touch him to hold his hand or brush his hair off his face.  His skin was so sensitive that any contact, even the most lovingly gentle, had the potential to trigger another seizure._

_It was sometime after ten o'clock that night when his condition started to improve.  Jesse had finally coaxed Mark to step out long enough to have a bite to eat and a cup of coffee, and Amanda was alone with him.  She had been telling him about her last visit home to her boys, and how they said they missed him and had sent their love, when suddenly, in just a matter of minutes, his too-rapid heart rate came down and his much-too-low blood pressure went up until they were both within normal range.  In less than two hours, his hives were gone and he was breathing unassisted.  By morning, except for being utterly exhausted, he looked as if nothing had happened._

Steve grinned.  After all the work they had gone through to help him recover his proper memories, no one was at all concerned that he couldn't recall much about the time between his two allergic episodes.  He had been allowed to sleep through most of the day following the first bad reaction, waking up just long enough to eat a few meals, brush his teeth, and talk with Kat about how he felt to come so close to death so suddenly.  She was surprised to find that it hadn't fazed him all that much, but when he'd told her about other experiences he'd had, she could understand his philosophical attitude.  She was even more surprised when she later found out that the stories he had told her were all true.

On the second day following the anaphylactic shock, Steve asked to see Amanda.  At first, it was awkward, but once a few things were brought out into the open, the warmth and closeness they had always shared was still there.

_"I didn't forget you, Amanda," he said as soon as he saw her._

_"Oh, Steve, I know that," she assured him kindly._

_He studied her through narrowed eyes and said, "I don't believe you do."_

_"Steve," she said in that compassionate tone of hers as she came to sit on the bed and take his hand, "I have been here every day, watching what you have been going through, and sometimes, not being able to watch.  I know you have had to deal with . . . so much lately, and with everything that must be on your mind and in your heart, it would be selfish of me to expect to take a very high priority.  I know you didn't forget me, and I knew, when you were ready, I'd be able to come see you.  I would have been here sooner, but Dr. Lewis thought it would be best if I waited until you asked for me."_

_"I know you were here the other day when I got sick," he said._

_"Oh, that, well, Dr. Lewis thought . . . that is . . . "_

_"She decided to let you come see me in case I didn't make it, didn't she?"_

_"Now, Steve!"_

_Steve smiled slightly.  "Tell me it isn't so, Amanda."_

_"You know I won't lie to you.  That's why she let me come in, but Steve, I realize life has thrown more at you than you can deal with lately, and I know having me hang around wouldn't have helped . . . "_

_"But, Amanda . . . "_

_"No 'buts', Steve.  I know you didn't forget me.  You were just waiting until you could be civil, that's all."  She smiled and squeezed his hand gently.  He smiled back, and everything was ok again._

Steve smiled again, remembering the special warmth he'd shared with his friend as they spent a pleasant morning together.  She'd told him about the summer camp her boys had gone to and the presents they had made.  CJ had wanted to send the pencil cup he'd made for Steve with Amanda, but when she'd explained that she wouldn't be allowed to give it to him while he was in treatment, they had decided to save all the presents for a special welcome home party when he was better.  They had lunch together with Mark and Jesse, and then she had given him a hug and a kiss, his father had given him a squeeze on the shoulder, and they had left him alone with Jesse.

_"Ok, buddy," Jesse had said as he took out the hypo full of a complex cocktail of psychiatric drugs, "this is a different mix from the one we used the other day.  You've tolerated all of these drugs well before, so it's not very likely that they will cause you any problems this time."_

_Five minutes later, Steve was curled in the fetal position on the bed, suffering with agonizing stomach cramps.  He'd already lost his lunch, and whatever might have been left of his breakfast, and every few minutes he would suffer another round of dry heaves that would leave him shaken and exhausted.  He'd endured nearly twenty-four hours of pure torture without the benefit of either morphine to ease the pain or compazine to reduce the nausea because both drugs were likely to interact with those already in his system.  At least his father and friends were able to offer him some comfort this time by sponging away the perspiration from his face, holding the emesis basin for him, and rubbing his back._

Steve shook his head, wondering why he seemed to dwell on the worst moments of his recent treatment.  Most days had been perfectly uneventful.  Naturally, every day had had its difficult moments, but most of the time, his days followed a dull routine.  He would have breakfast early, followed by a short visit from his father and friends.  Then Jesse would dose him with the drug of the day, and after he had ridden out the initial effects of the medication entering his system, he would spend the remaining time until lunch in the treatment room with Jesse trying to piece together what had been done to him.  He would eat lunch with his father, Jesse, and Amanda, and then spend the afternoon with Kat, trying to work out how he felt about all he had been through.

Steve smiled, remembering one of the meetings he'd had with Kat.  They had been discussing the time Quinn Trask had kidnapped Jesse, dumped him in Utah, drugged him, and convinced him he had been kidnapped by aliens.  It had been part of an effort to ruin Jesse's credibility so that his unfavorable reports on a drug he had been testing wouldn't delay the marketing of the medicine.  Steve had mentioned that the only reason Jesse had been left alone in the first place was that he had brought only light beer and Steve preferred the real thing.

_"It took me a while to stop believing that they had been able to take him because I couldn't drink light beer.  I felt really guilty about that for a while."_

_"But you don't any more?"_

_Steve shook his head.  "No, I don't.  Jesse pointed out to me that if I had been there when Trask had come for him, I probably would have been taken, too, and no one would ever have seen me alive again."_

_"So, your friendship survived that incident."_

_"Yeah, it did.  Our friendship has survived a lot."  Steve had laughed slightly then._

_"What?  Why are you laughing?"_

_"It just occurred to me, of all the times we have gotten together for one thing or another, Jesse has never brought the beer since then."_

_"Why do you think that is?"_

_Steve smiled.  He knew.  "Jesse's a little superstitious."  He had then proceeded to tell Kat all about the dreaded 'Curse of Carmel'._

"Steve? . . . Steve!"

"Huh?  Oh, Jess, what?"

"It's time.  The Chief is here.  Are you ready?"

Immediately, Steve felt his heart jump to his throat.  Ignoring his anxiety, he nodded.  He had some questions that needed answers, and no case of nerves, no matter how bad, was going to keep him from asking them.


	12. The Meeting

**Chapter 12:  The Meeting**

**(Friday, 25 July, 2003.  1000 hours.)**

Steve walked into the meeting room and sat on the side of the table away from the door.  Gritting his teeth to avoid a smart remark, he raised his arms so Jesse could strap him in the chair.  He understood that it was being done for the Chief's safety as well as his own, but still, something deep inside him balked at the idea of being tied like an animal.

Once Steve was properly restrained, Jesse sat beside him.  "How are you feeling, buddy?"

"I'm fine, Jess.  Is the Chief here yet?"

"Yeah, he's just down the hall."  The silence grew for a while then Jesse said, "So, you're ok with this, huh?"

"I told you, Jess, I'm fine.  Just send the Chief in so I can get this over with and get on with my life, ok?"

Jesse frowned.  "You're sure you're not holding back on me?"

Steve sighed.  "Ok, ok, I am a little nervous."

"About what, Steve?"

"Well, Jess, let's see, I believe I tried to kill the man," Steve said sarcastically.  "Yes, I distinctly recall shooting at him, four times if I'm not mistaken."  

Steve could see the irritation spark in his friend's eyes, and he immediately felt sorry.  He knew people were taking great pains to help him, and he was being uncooperative.  It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the concern, but he was just so damned tired of feeling weak and needy.

"Look, Jess, I'm sorry.  I am nervous.  I'm worried about my future, whether I'll even have a future after this.  Did you see the Chief?  Did he seem angry?"

Smiling, Jesse put a hand on his arm.  "Steve, Chief Masters is the one who hooked us up with Dr. Lewis in the first place.  If it weren't for him, you'd probably still be in a padded room at Community General.  He didn't seem angry at all to me.  In fact, he seemed very concerned about you."

"Really?"  Steve had to admit, that didn't sound much like the Chief he knew.  As far as he could ever tell, the only time the man took an interest in his officers' well being was when something that happened to them reflected on him or affected an investigation.

"Yes, really.  In fact, just between you and me, I think he likes you more than he lets on.  Now, do you think you're ready to see him?"

Steve pressed his lips into a hard, straight line.  After a slight hesitation, he nodded.  Jesse gave him a pat on the shoulder and went to the door.  Chief Masters came in, took one look at Steve, and frowned.

"Excuse me a moment, Lieutenant," he said, and stepped back out in the hall.

Steve felt his stomach tie itself in a knot.  He gave Jesse a questioning look, but his young friend just shrugged and looked confused.  Wondering if the Chief wanted to see him bound hand and foot in addition to the chest and leg straps, he strained to hear the conversation that was being conducted in the hall.  

"Pardon me, Dr. Lewis," Steve heard through the half-open door, "why is Lieutenant Sloan in restraints?"

Steve slowly released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

"That's for your protection, Chief, in case there has been some secondary agenda we have missed," Steve heard Kat say.

"Dr. Lewis," Steve heard the icy tone that struck fear in the hearts of many a cop, "Lieutenant Sloan is no more a threat to me than you are.  Remove the restraints."

"He did try to kill you recently, Chief," Kat reminded him, and Steve had to admire her pluck.

"Those were extraordinary circumstances."

"That's true," she agreed, "but until we are sure just what the circumstances are now, he needs to be restrained, for your safety."

"I see.  Come with me, doctor."

Chief Masters came into the room again with Kat in tow.  She looked at Jesse, somewhat bemused, and they shrugged at each other, but she was willing to go along for the time being.  Without warning, the Chief bent over, pulled a .38 from his ankle holster, and placed it on the table in front of Steve.  

"Pick it up, Lieutenant."

Kat watched tensely as Steve stared at the gun, and he saw her edge toward the door when he followed the Chief's order and closed his hand around the grip with his finger on trigger.  Then Masters turned his back, and put his hands on his head.

"If you're gonna do it, do it now, Sloan.  You'll never get a better chance."

"_Are you nuts?_"Steve shouted, and he put the gun back on the table and pushed it out of his reach.  He glared at Jess when his friend failed to stifle a guffaw.

For a moment, Chief Masters' backbone stiffened, and then he relaxed, turned, sent a cool, narrow-eyed gaze from Steve to the gun and back, turned the same look on Dr. Lewis, and said, "I believe we have just demonstrated that he is no longer a threat to me.  Remove his restraints, _now_."

As Kat breathed a sigh of relief and hurriedly complied with the request, the Chief replaced the gun in its holster and sat down.  The table was no bigger than a card table, but rather than sitting opposite Steve, he sat at one of the adjoining sides.

"How have you been, Lieutenant?"  As he spoke, Kat and Jesse left the room, closing the door behind them.

Steve shrugged, doubting if the Chief was really interested.  "Some days are better than others, Sir," he said.

Chief Masters sighed, folded his arms on the table, and said, "That wasn't just polite small talk, Steve.  I really would like to know, if you are willing to tell me."

Steve frowned, nodded, and said, "There were some really bad days, Sir, especially at the beginning, a couple of times, it didn't look like I'd make it, but I had my dad and my friends here, and I got lucky, I guess."

The Chief nodded.  "Yes, Dr. Travis told me you had rather bad reactions to the medication a couple of times."  There was a brief pause, and then, "Well, I imagine you have some questions for me."

"Yes, Sir, I do."

The Chief waited a moment, but when Steve seemed hesitant to begin he said, "Look, Steve, what happened wasn't your fault . . . "  
  


"I tried to kill you, Sir!"

Masters shook his head.  "No, Steve.  Alejo Mateo tried to kill me.  He just used you."

"Who is Alejo Mateo?"  Steve asked, confused.

"Alejo Mateo is a mercenary, a former Army Ranger," the Chief said.  "We've . . . been acquainted with one another for over forty years.  Ross Cainin wanted someone to take me out, and Mateo was happy to take the job.  It seems Cainin's another individual who doesn't like me much anymore."

"Cainin?"  Steve was growing more confused by the minute.  Ross Cainin was supposed to be the Chief's inside man with the Ganza crime family.

"Yes.  Cainin has decided it would be more profitable for him to go independent," Master's explained.  "You were right.  Putting him in charge of the Ganza family was a bad idea.  Mateo's daughter, Elena, infiltrated the LAPD as a civilian assistant."  The Chief stopped his explanation there and waited to see if Steve would make the connection.  Usually, Sloan was a quick thinker, but with all the drugs that had undoubtedly been pumped through his system, he might be a little slow on the uptake.

The room was silent for a little while, then Steve said softly, "Elaine Matthews."

The Chief nodded, pleased to see his officer was still mentally sharp, but saddened to see how disappointed he was.  "I'm sorry, Steve."

This conversation was beginning to get surreal.  In the past two minutes, Masters had expressed a genuine concern for his well being, confessed to a mistake, admitted Steve had been right when he had been wrong, and said he was sorry.  Maybe the drugs were still affecting him more than any of them expected.  Anxious to get the discussion back to more solid footing, Steve decided to let the revelation about Elaine go for now.

"Why me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did they use me to get to you?"

"Are you sure you want the answer to that?"  The Chief knew how personally Sloan tended to take bad things that were often beyond his control.  There was no way he could hear the truth without feeling somewhat responsible.  Still, if the man wanted the truth, Masters wouldn't lie to him.

"Yes.  I need to know."

Chief Masters nodded again.  "You had access to me, and . . . you made no secret of your . . . dislike for me."  Before Steve could start feeling guilty for that, he added, "I don't blame you, you know.  I can be a real bastard sometimes, but in a job like mine, you don't expect to have many friends."

Steve bristled at the implication.  "I have always treated you with respect, Sir."

"Oh, I know that, Lieutenant," the Chief said cooly.  "I wouldn't have tolerated anything less, but the fact that you dislike me made you an easy target for Mateo.  It made convincing you that I was a threat to your loved ones easier, and if his plan had succeeded, it would have been easier to dismiss your killing me as some sort of grudge for your own shooting and your father's murder conviction."

While Steve digested the information, the Chief told him,  "I have to say, the fact that I was your intended target aside, I am still very glad Mateo's plan failed.  Detective Banks is quite eager to have her partner back.  It seems she and Detective Archer don't get along terribly well."

Steve looked up in shock.  "Do I still have a job to go back to?"

The Chief appraised him with that cool, narrow-eyed look that always made him feel like a bug under a microscope.  "Yes, I think you do," he nodded.  "You'll have to requalify to carry a weapon and for pursuit driving, and I can't make any promises as to how soon you will be back on the streets, but when you convince your doctors that you are fit for duty, there is still a place for you with the LAPD."

Steve felt his heart doing somersaults.  "Thank you, Sir, thank you."

Masters remained very cool.  "Don't thank me, Lieutenant.  You're an asset to the force, and it would be foolish of me to let you go."  The Chief stood to leave, and out of habit, Steve rose as well as a show of respect.  "If there's anything else I can do to help you get back to work, just let me know, Steve."

"Actually, Sir, there is one thing."

Chief Masters raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I want to talk to them, to Elaine and Mateo.  I need to see them."

Masters looked thoughtful.  "I'll see what I can do, provided your doctors approve."  

"With all due respect," Steve said, "I know what I need to get over what has happened to me, Sir, and one thing I need is to confront them."

"Like I said, Lieutenant," Masters said calmly, "I will see what I can do, provided your doctors approve."

Steve nodded, reluctant to accept anything less than a promise that he would see them.

"Well, then," the Chief said, "I guess I will see you later."

"Yes, Sir.  Good day, Sir."

The Chief paused in the doorway, and without turning round, he said, "For what it's worth, Steve, I really am sorry about what has happened to you."

Steve couldn't help but feel shocked.  Twice in one conversation, he had heard the Chief utter the words 'I'm sorry.'  Just before the door closed, he managed to get out the words, "Apology accepted, Sir."


	13. Breaking Free

**Chapter 13:  Breaking Free**

**(Monday, 28 July, 2003.  1330 hours.)**

"Aren't you coming with me?" Steve asked Jesse nervously.

Jesse shook his head.  "Not this time, no.  You need to do this on your own."

"But, Jess, what am I supposed to do?"  Steve was feeling very apprehensive.  He'd known for a while now that today was the last day he would ever have to face the treatment room.  It was the first time he'd even been there without the benefit of drugs in his system, and he wondered anxiously if it would be as scary and depressing now that he had all his wits about him.  To find out that he had to enter the place alone made him quite frightened.

Jesse smiled mischievously.  "You'll know when you get in there."  To make things a little easier for his friend, Jesse turned the knob and left the door slightly ajar.  "Trust me, Steve, you can do this."  He gave his friend a pat on the back, and walked away down the hall, leaving Steve to enter the room in his own time, when he felt ready.

Steve battled the butterflies in his stomach for several minutes, searching for the courage to go in.  In the end, it was his friend's words, 'Trust me,' that gave him the strength to press on.  Steve did trust Jesse.  The young doctor was caring and compassionate, and fiercely protective of the people he loved, and Steve knew he was lucky to be included in that group.  Jesse wouldn't push him to do this if he wasn't ready, so, feeling very much like Daniel entering the lion's den, Steve nudged the door open and walked in.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, for the room was exactly as he had seen it that first time, with only the light above the tank shining.  After a moment, his vision cleared, and he had to smile at what he saw.  Several times during his recovery, Kat had asked him to write down what he would do if he were charged with the task of dismantling the treatment room.  He supposed imagining himself disassembling that which had tormented him for so long was supposed to have some therapeutic effect, but more often than not, he had just found himself feeling more frustrated and helpless knowing the suggestions he'd made would never really be considered.  He'd come up with some rather creative scenarios, but this had been his personal favorite.

Walking up to the tank, he found a note scrawled in Jesse's distinctive scribble.  __

_Knock yourself out, Steve, but please, wear the protective gear provided _

_and stand to the side when you swing.  You've come too far to get hurt now._

Grinning, Steve pulled on the clunky rubber boots and the heavy canvas shirt.  He put the protective goggles on his face, and slipped the leather gloves on his hands.  Lastly, he put the hardhat on to protect his head.  Calling out to whoever may have been watching, he said, "I sure hope you guys have cut the power to the cameras in the floor."  Then he picked up the sixteen-pound sledgehammer, stood a little off to the side of the tank, and swung for all he was worth.

His first blow cracked the thick glass from corner to corner with the sound of a rifle shot, and water started leaking out of the tank at various spots along the split.  Not satisfied with that, Steve swung again, grunting with the force behind the blow, and the safety glass disintegrated as hundreds of gallons of water came out with a rushing roar.  Grinning delightedly, Steve decided knocking out the one wall to drain the tank wasn't enough.  Stepping inside of his own free will, he turned to one of the other walls and with one swift swing, shattered it to bits.

**(Monday, 28 July, 2003.  1345 hours.)**

Steve paused for breath, but he was far from finished.  He could feel the blood singing in his veins.  He was taking great pleasure in dismantling the treatment room, and he was feeling more alive than he had in weeks.  Shortly after destroying the water tank, he stopped for a moment when he realized he was destroying evidence.  After some thought, though, it occurred to him that Jesse knew enough of police procedure not to allow him to do so if it would make any difference.  Elaine and Mateo were not run of the mill criminals, and though he didn't know who would be dealing with them, he doubted that they would be facing a run of the mill trial.  He knew there were certain systems that operated outside of the conventional law, and while he didn't necessarily approve of suspending anyone's Constitutional rights, he knew, if the Chief were involved, they would be punished exactly as much as they deserved and they would never again be allowed to hurt anyone as they had done him.  

Satisfied that he was in no way hindering justice, Steve had then turned his attention to the cameras that had been mounted in the floor.  He'd had to bash his way through several inches of concrete to get to the workings of each one, but he had pounded away steadily at the cement floor until he'd found the hated cameras, and then he'd beaten the hell out of them.

Next, he put the ladder Jesse had provided him in the middle of the tank, strapped on the tool belt, climbed up, and took the camera that had been mounted over the tank down.  When the last of the screws was removed, he let it fall carelessly to the floor.  Back on _terra firma_, he picked up his sledge again and smashed the camera to bits.  As he carried the ladder into one of the dark corners of the room to repeat the procedure with another camera, someone in the observation room turned the rest of the lights on for him.

"Thanks," he called out, and went to work on the next camera.

**(Monday, 28 July, 2003.  1450 hours.)**

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Steve surveyed the destruction around him and smiled.  It had taken nearly an hour and a half, but he was almost finished now.  He'd stopped for a breather after destroying the last of the cameras, and then had bashed the speakers to bits.  There had been twenty of them, four along each wall, and now there were twenty piles of shattered plastic, wood, and metal, every one covered in its own little black cloth shroud.

After the speakers, he'd turned his attention to the computer and data projector.  Again, he'd left nothing but rubble in his wake.  Not even the table on which they had been sitting was untouched.  It had taken him three tries, but he'd finally broken it in half with his sledgehammer.  He was relieved to find that the real photographs that had been used in his torment and later treatment had been removed.  He hadn't given them a thought when he'd emptied the water tank, but since they were gone, he supposed Jesse had taken them out beforehand.  He was glad to know they would be returned to his father undamaged.  The fake photos though, had been left to him to dispose of.

By now, the water had all run down the drain in the middle of the floor, and the concrete was dry once again, the perfect surface for what Steve had in mind.  Jesse had even provided a broom.  It was part of the fantasy Steve had described when he wrote about how he would disassemble the treatment room.  He started by sweeping the remains of the speakers into the center of the room.  Then he added the carcasses of the computer, the data projector, and the table.  All of the cameras went onto the pile, too, and the projector screen was placed on the very top.  Then, finding the lighter Jesse had slipped into his tool belt, he poked the faked photographs into the pile here and there, and lit them afire one by one.

He knew the toxic fumes from all of the plastics in the fire would become overwhelming soon, but he didn't have much left to do.  Looking up at the observation window, he muttered, "I hope someone up there has read the whole plan."  Just in case they hadn't, Steve pointed at the hammer, then at the window, made a sailing motion with his arm toward the window, and acted like he was ducking for cover.  Turning his back to the window and gripping the hammer in both hands, he began to spin.  Half way through his second turn, he let go of the hammer, and watched it sail across the room and through the window.  Half a tic later, the glass came shattering down and he could see sparks flying in the room beyond.  A couple of very distressed technicians peeked out at him and then withdrew.

Finally, just on a whim, he took the screwdriver out of his tool belt, turned, and threw it at the golden light above the disaster that had been the water tank.  Whether due to many hours of practice on the shooting range or just desperate need to completely break free of this room that had haunted him for so long, Steve would never know, but to his utter surprise, the screwdriver shattered the bulb with a tinkling sound and then clattered to the floor on the other side of the room.

With a satisfied smile, Steve removed his boots, the goggles, gloves, tool belt, hardhat, and the heavy shirt and added them to the small, merrily crackling bonfire in the middle of the room.  Then he turned his back on that whole sad and sorry chapter in his life, and walked out, shutting the door behind him.


	14. A Man Who Will Not Be Turned

**Chapter 14:  A Man Who Will Not Be Turned**

**(Thursday, 31 July, 2003.  1030 hours.)**

Steve paced nervously outside the small interview room.  He wasn't sure how far underground they were, but on the elevator ride down, it had felt like several floors.  As far as he was concerned, hell itself wasn't deep enough to bury the people he was here to see.

Steve had been surprised early that morning when Dane Travis, of all people, had walked into his cell and asked him if he still wanted to speak with Alejo and Elena Mateo.  If his father, the Chief, and Jesse hadn't been standing in the hall behind him, all three of them dressed for travel, Steve might have been suspicious, but as it was, he only hesitated a moment before saying yes.  Not knowing where he was going or how long he'd be gone, he'd put on his jacket, grabbed the unopened carton of milk and the banana from his breakfast tray, and headed out the door.

As shocked as he had been to see Dane that morning, it was nothing compared to the realization that the helicopter was taking them all to Cedar Lake Military Reservation, the place where he'd found Jesse's wallet when Quinn Trask had kidnapped him.  They'd been met by the same older Asian man who had questioned Steve and tried (almost successfully) to intimidate him when he'd been caught climbing the perimeter fence.  Steve was getting a better idea of who Elena and Alejo Mateo were by the minute, and it made him wonder just what in the hell the Chief had done before he became a cop that had kept these people pissed off at him for forty years.

"Son, they've only given you thirty minutes," his dad said gently.  "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Steve looked at Dane and considered asking him if he could postpone the confrontation for a few days.  As if reading his mind, Dane shook his head and said, "I won't be able to get us in here again.  I pulled a lot of strings for this one trip.  It's now or never."

Steve crossed the room to the door, took hold of the knob, and entered the interview room.

**(Thursday, 31 July, 2003.  1030 hours.)**

Steve couldn't help but feel relieved that the two other people in the room were in full restraints, and not just because he'd spent far too many days bound like an animal on their account.  He needed to know that they could be restrained, that despite what they had done to him, they could be stopped.  Strangely, he took no pleasure in seeing them in chains.

"Elaine," he greeted the woman first, "or should I say Elena?"

"Pfft," she hissed at him.  "Suit yourself."

Turning to the man, he said, "and you must be Alejo Mateo.  I understand you knew my boss some years ago."

"Oh, don't let him kid you, Lieutenant," Mateo said congenially, and that familiar, suave, cultured voice made Steve's stomach fill with acid.  "To say we 'knew' each other is a terrible understatement.  The giardia in the water coolers that kept your dad and friends from going away with you that weekend, it was his idea.  We tried it for the first time at a mental hospital in East Germany back in the sixties.  There was a scientist wanting to defect, and we were sent in to bring him out.  Jack and I were closer than brothers until he stole from me the one thing I would not have freely given him."

Steve could only take so much of that voice at any one time, and, as he was just beginning to appreciate the Chief as more than just a competent leader, he really didn't want to know what dark secrets lay in the older man's past.  He turned to Elena instead.  "I thought we had some good times together.  Was there ever anything there, or was it just my imagination?"

She gave him a derisive snort.  "Get over yourself.  It wasn't even your imagination, it was my acting.  You were an asset to be used, a means to an end, nothing more, nothing less."

Steve took a deep breath to forestall any comments he would regret later.  Then he asked the question that had been on his mind since his ordeal began.  "Why did you decide to use me?"

"You were an easy target," she said, "a little insecure and oh, so needy, though you don't even realize it.  You need to be needed so bad.  I'd heard about your disastrous love life.  Do you know some of your own colleagues still call you the unluckiest bachelor in LA behind your back?  I knew you'd be the one the day we met.  You carried those file boxes for me, all three at once, stacked up one on top of the other, so proud to show off your big muscles and your good manners.  You reeked of desperation."

"Some people call that common decency," Steve said, reigning in his temper.  Surprisingly, Elena's insults didn't hurt.  It was the oblique reference to Lily that infuriated him.  Somehow, to hear this vile creature mention anything to do with that beautiful young woman seemed an attempt to sully her memory, and Elena and her father had soiled quite enough of his memories as it was.

"I thought you'd be strong enough to do what you had to do to protect your friends and family," she said snidely, "but I guess I was wrong.  I'm so disappointed."

"You were wrong, Elena," Steve heard a dangerous, whispery voice behind him, and he nearly jumped.  Turning, he saw the Chief standing at the door.  Surprised that he'd never heard him come in, Steve just stood aside slightly to make room for him to fully enter.  

Looking at Alejo, the Chief continued.  "You still are wrong about him, as a matter of fact.  You see Lieutenant Sloan is really much stronger than either of you gave him credit for.  He was able to find a way to tip us off about what you had done to him.  Your plan didn't fail because he was too weak to kill me.  It failed because he was too strong to let you make him do it."

Looking at Steve, Masters said, "Lieutenant, they're asking us to leave now."

Steve just nodded, too stunned by the compliment to say anything more.  He'd gotten the answers he needed, even though he hadn't been able to ask all the questions.  As he walked out of the interview room, he heard Mateo laugh, "Jack, if I'd had another twenty-four hours with him, you'd be dead, and so would he."

Steve felt a chill run down his spine and wondered if it had really been that close.  

"Don't kid yourself, Alejo, I haven't forgotten the programming protocols," the Chief said, and Steve knew there was definitely more in the man's background than he wanted to find out about, "forty-eight hours or seventy-two, it makes no difference.  You could have had all the time in the world, and it wouldn't have worked.  Sloan is a man who will not be turned."

Steve heard a sinister laugh as the door creaked shut.

**(Thursday, 31 July, 2003.  1100 hours.)**

"_Kat_?" Steve said in shock as he stepped out of the elevator back in the sunlight at Cedar Lake Military Reservation.  "What in the world are you doing here?"  He couldn't hide the happy grin that seeing her brought on.  He felt like she might be the one person who would understand how he was feeling now that he had confronted Elena and her father about what they had done to him.

"I, uh, I've come to see you off, Steve."

Dane, Jesse, his dad, and the Chief continued walking toward the helicopter while Steve lingered to talk.  Frowning, he said, "See me off?  I don't understand.  How did you get here?"

She smiled sweetly.  "After all you've been through, you can still be so naïve."  She caressed his face.  "Don't ever lose that innocence, Steve, I think it's what protected you from Mateo."

"Kat, what are you talking about?"  He put his arms around her.  It wasn't so unusual, she'd given him the occasional hug when he'd needed it and no one else was around.

"Steve, undoing what Mateo did to you required specialized knowledge and a lot of pharmaceuticals that are not commercially available," she said, "knowledge that Jesse doesn't have, and drugs he's never heard of."

Steve looked around and sighed.  "You work here, don't you?"

She nodded.  "I'm sorry, Steve."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Oh, Steve," she said sadly, "a guy like you doesn't want to know someone who does what I do for a living."

"But, Kat, you _help _people."

She pushed him away slightly.  "Steve, treating patients, helping people, is a rare privilege for me.  Usually, I just extract information.  I'm very good at it.  Hell, I invented some of the drugs Mateo used on you."

As the implication of what she had just said sank in, Steve drew further away.  "I see," was all he could say, and he did see, all too clearly.  He couldn't suppress a shiver of revulsion.

"Don't look down on me, Steve," she said.  "Don't you dare look down on me for what I do!"

"How can I not?" he asked, "After all I've been through, how can I not?"

"By remembering this.  The world needs people like me."

"I'm sure it does," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, it does, all right," she insisted.  "In the past three years, I have collected information that has allowed our covert operations teams to find three nuclear weapons and a cache of chemical agents all in the hands of terrorist groups planning strikes against our country.  It's people like me, hiding away in the dark little places that nobody else even wants to think about, that make the world safe for people like you to live your lives."

Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  What Kat had said was exactly how he viewed his own job as a homicide detective.  She was doing a job nobody else wanted and most people couldn't handle.  And she was doing it for the benefit of some of the same people who would hate her for it.

"You're right," he said, "I can't look down on you.  But I don't want to know you anymore, either.  Thank you for helping me."  He took a step back, swallowed the lump in his throat, and said, "Goodbye."

Steve walked to the helicopter and climbed in without ever looking back.  He didn't see Kat wipe away her tears as the motor started, and he didn't see her waving to him as they took off.  He was done with her, and he hoped she was through with him, too.


	15. Back to Work

Chapter 15: Back to Work 

**(Monday, 11 August 2003.  0930 hours)**

"Chief, I have a message for you," Steve Sloan put his pen back in the pencil cup CJ had given him at his homecoming party, hung up his phone, and called to his superior as Chief Masters walked through the squad room on his way to an important meeting.  Captain Newman moved alongside of him, providing him with some last minute information.  Steve was on desk duty this first week just to be sure he could handle being back in the squad room.  In fact, today was his first day on the job in over a month, and he was feeling really good about it. 

As the Chief turned to face him, Newman's hand went to his weapon.  A couple of people dove for cover, and out of the corner of his eye, Steve could see Tanis Archer leveling her gun at him.

Stepping back, Steve raised his hands in the air, and suddenly remembering it all like it was yesterday, he shouted, "NO!  No, really, Sir, your secretary knew you were in an important meeting with Captain Newman, and rather than interrupt, she asked me to pass this information along."  Steve held the note out gingerly.

The Chief reached out, accepted the slip of paper, read it, and nodded.  "Very good.  Thank you, Lieutenant."  Looking around, he saw Tanis with her gun still drawn, ready in case of emergency, and he said, "Sergeant, put that thing away before you hurt someone."  Scowling at the other officers, he said, "Don't you people have some criminals to catch or something?"  Giving Newman a look of cool disapproval, said simply, "Captain?"

In moments, the activity in the squad room was back to normal, the Chief was gone, and Newman was back in his office.  Finding himself standing in the middle of the room alone, Steve went back to his desk and sat down, cradling his head in his hands, staring at the green blotter before him.

He didn't have a name for what he was feeling at that moment.  He just suddenly realized that something at the very foundation of his life had shifted.  He had, barely more than a month ago, murdered the Chief of Police in cold blood, at least in his own drugged, delusional mind.  He couldn't fathom it.  He understood intellectually now about the drugs, the psychology, and the torture, but on an emotional level, he still couldn't quite grasp the concept that he, of all people, had committed premeditated, first-degree murder.  Suddenly, he didn't feel he was handling things all that well on his first day back.

"Lieutenant."

Recognizing the voice, Steve began automatically to rise and face the Chief.

"At ease," the older man said, and as Steve settled back into his chair, the Chief took the seat beside his desk.

For several minutes, the two men sat there, not moving or making a sound.  The Chief just watched one of his best detectives staring at the blotter, struggling with some inner turmoil.  Finally, Sloan looked up at him, and the haunted look in his eyes made the Chief's heart clench in regret and shame at the indiscretions of some forty years past for which this fine officer was still suffering now.

"Are you sure you did the right thing, letting me come back?" Steve asked softly.

The Chief stared at his Lieutenant for a few moments, then said simply, "You wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you."

After a pause, Steve nodded.  The Chief smiled and stood up.  Giving the Detective a meaningful look, he said, "Now, get back to work."

With a relieved smile, Steve said, "Yes, Sir," and he opened another file in front of him.

The End

**A/N:  Thank you all for the wonderful reviews.  It has been a genuine pleasure writing this story and posting it, and then reading all of your comments.  **

**Jo**


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